


Geralt and Jaskier's Brothel Adventures

by valdomarx (cptxrogers)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (quietly: yes homo), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Denial, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Frottage, Guilt, Hand Jobs, It's not gay if it's a threeway, M/M, Massage, Masturbation, No Homo, Or Is It?, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Public Sex, Rimming, Smut, Sparring, Threesome - F/M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, canon-typical sex work, idiots to lovers, latent sexual desires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 25,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24029020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptxrogers/pseuds/valdomarx
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier visit a brothel together.Because there's no chance that might awaken anything in either of them, right?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 925
Kudos: 2452
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Medium Length Works to Read, these bitches gay! good for them!!





	1. and there was only one prostitute

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to everyone on Tumblr who has been cheering along this fic as I've been posting it over there! It's been loads of fun brainstorming as a team.
> 
> Come [join us](https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/tagged/geralt-and-jaskier%27s-brothel-adventures) if you'd like and yell about how horny and dumb these two idiots are.

It’s been a long few weeks in the wilderness, and for once it’s as much of a relief for Geralt as it is for Jaskier to arrive in a town with a comfortable inn. Nature may have its bounties, but the body has its needs. Alas, the contracts have been poor of late, and by the time the room and bath have been paid for, both of their purses are light.

There’s enough money for a decent meal or for a trip to a brothel, but not both. Geralt contemplates this dilemma.

“We could share,” Jaskier suggests.

Geralt snorts. “One portion of food barely feeds me at the best of times. I’m not going halves with you.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I don’t mean dinner. We could share a girl.”

“Hmm.” Geralt considers. That would indeed be cheaper, and there would be enough coin left over for a basic meal for each of them as well. The thought of both satisfaction _and_ food wins out over any qualms he has, and he nods.

Jaskier brightens, and hustles him off in the direction of the local brothel.

–

He lets Jaskier do the talking once they arrive. It seems easier that way. Jaskier explains what they want and arranges payment with the madam, who recommends to them a highly accommodating lady by the name of April who resides upstairs.

When they head to her room, they find April to be a sturdy brunette with lovely wide hips and a cute dimpled chin. Taking in the pair of them standing in the doorway, she raises an eyebrow. “Both at once?” she asks, not in the least bit shy.

“We come as a package deal,” Jaskier jokes, which sets Geralt’s teeth on edge.

“Two charming gentlemen,” she smiles beguilingly. “My lucky day.”

She leads them inside, to a bedroom filled with worn red velvet fabrics and the damp, musky smell of sex. They kick off their boots at the door, because it seems only polite, and while Geralt is wondering if there is some sort of etiquette to this sharing business she takes him by the hand and toys with the laces of his shirt.

“How about I start by getting this off you, handsome?” she asks, and he hums his assent. She pulls off his shirt and sucks in a quick breath when she sees his scars. She’s professional enough to cover it, but not fast enough to fool Geralt’s heightened senses. She touches each mark curiously.

“How did you get this one?” she asks, running her fingers over a jagged, red scar curving over his shoulder. Geralt is used to that question from bed partners. He doesn’t even mind it much.

“That one was from an ekhidna,” Jaskier butts in. “Caught him when he was out on a lake gathering buckthorn.”

Geralt glares at him. This situation would be much easier to deal with if Jaskier would keep his mouth shut for once.

The girl gives Jaskier a inquisitive look. “You know all his stories?” She walks over to Jaskier and runs a hand down his chest, catching on the buttons of his chemise and undoing them one by one to reveal a thatch of dark hair. Geralt averts his eyes.

Jaskier preens. “I should think so. I’m the one who made him famous.”

The girl giggles. “Maybe you can tell me what he likes then,” she says, looking back at Geralt from under her lashes. Her hands are still on Jaskier’s chest.

“I reckon I have an idea,” Jaskier says, and something about that sends a shiver up Geralt’s spine.

“Good,” the girl says, sliding the chemise off Jaskier’s shoulders. “It’s hard to tell with the strong and silent type.” She smiles at Geralt as she says it, though, so it doesn’t feel too much like a criticism.

“Do you think he’d like to go first, or would he prefer to watch?” She’s playing with the strings on Jaskier’s trousers now, teasing them around her fingers, the blue fabric bright against her rosy skin.

“Oh, he wants to watch,” Jaskier says, with absolute surety. Geralt’s eyes fly to his, because _what the fuck, Jaskier_ , but he finds Jaskier grinning like this is all perfectly delightful and not gearing up to be the most mortifying thing that’s ever happened to either of them.

“That work for you, big boy?” she asks, and Geralt doesn’t really know what to do other than nod. She indicates a chair in the corner of the room. “Make yourself comfortable, if you like.”

Unsure why this situation has made him so meek, he settles in the chair as he’s told. From here he can’t really help but get a full view of the bed.

April pushes Jaskier on to the bed with some force and he goes willingly, laughing. She climbs onto him and buries her face into his neck, where Geralt knows from prior observations that Jaskier is sensitive. He squirms beneath her attentions, cheeks flushing, hands running up her sides and over her breasts which are spilling out from her top.

Geralt can see glimpses of her hands as well, first opening Jaskier’s trousers, then pushing them down and wrapping around his cock. Jaskier groans and Geralt can smell his arousal, sharp and spicy, making his own heart beat pick up in sympathy.

She sits back to remove Jaskier’s trousers completely, which he tries to help with a gets a playful smack for, and then she’s pushing him down again and bending to lick stripes up his now clearly hard cock. Geralt doesn’t know where to look.

When she swallows Jaskier’s cock down in one go, Jaskier arches his back and Geralt’s attention is drawn to the long, elegant line of his neck, the tight cords of muscle running out to his shoulders. Geralt fidgets in the chair, his trousers uncomfortably tight.

It’s because of the girl, obviously, that he’s feeling so on edge. She really is very pretty, and watching a pretty girl sucking cock would get any man going, wouldn’t it?

Geralt finds his fingers playing through his trousers without him meaning to, although April notices from the corner of her eye.

“You can take care of yourself while you watch,” she says, pulling off with a wink. “We won’t mind, will we?”

Jaskier looks at him with a smirk. “We won’t mind at all.”

Geralt scowls, feeling strangely put upon. But if that’s what’s expected… He unlaces his trousers and sighs in relief when he wraps a hand around his aching cock. 

As April gets back to work, Jaskier strokes a finger down her cheek, and Geralt is struck by how tender his is, even when he has no need to be. Most men couldn’t be less interested in the comfort of a whore they’re with, but Jaskier cares about everyone, it seems, even someone he’ll only see for one night.

When she gets her hands involved, Jaskier throws his arms above his head and twines his fingers into the headboard. Geralt’s mouth goes very dry, for some reason, at the sight of Jaskier stretched out and braced for pleasure. Geralt spits in his hand and works himself over, carefully not thinking too much about it.

What’s somewhat disconcerting is the fact that Jaskier keeps looking over at him, his eyes darting back to Geralt while a woman sucks his cock. The first time it happens Geralt’s breath hitches, and he thinks he should really tear his gaze away from Jaskier’s face and focus at the action, so to speak. But something in the way Jaskier bites at his lip, head thrown back in gratification, has heat racing under Geralt’s skin. He works himself harder, faster, eyes on Jaskier and discomfort with the situation rapidly eclipsed by desire.

When Jaskier’s breath becomes more irregular and more gasping, April pulls off again. “You want to finish in my mouth or inside my pussy, sweetheart?” she asks.

“Your mouth is a joy and a delight, which I would be honoured to continuing appreciating,” Jaskier says, effusive as ever, and she gives him a sweet smile.

“As you like.” She turns to Geralt. “Maybe now you’d like to join us, love?” She pushes her skirt up over her wide hips, showing off the curve of her arse. Looking at him, she reaches behind herself, sliding a finger over her wet lips and dipping it inside. “You wouldn’t leave me so bereft, would you?”

Geralt is nothing if not chivalrous, and he does appreciate being given clear instructions. So he stands from the chair and walks over to the bed, hand still on his cock as he takes in the view.

Jaskier is lying on his back on the bed, with April on all fours over him. And she’s in the perfect position for Geralt to stand behind her and line up his cock with the inviting slick of her lips, swollen and rosy.

As he enters her it’s like warm, wet velvet enveloping his cock, and by gods, he’s missed this.

He sets a slow, languid pace, not wanting to be too demanding. The only issue is that from this angle, he can see the curve of her hips and the soft lines of her back, leading up to her dark hair. But he can also see Jaskier, spread out beneath her, all long limbs and firm muscle, face slack with pleasure as she takes his cock into her mouth. It’s… distracting, that’s what it is.

There’s nowhere else he can reasonably look though, so he stares down at the pair of them as he fucks her, noting the little shivers that pass through her body and the way Jaskier twitches when she swirls her tongue. 

When she pushes back to meet Geralt’s thrusts, urging him to go faster, he doesn’t fight it, letting himself be led. She takes Jaskier down with even more enthusiasm as well, and soon Jaskier’s pants become whines and his hands grip more tightly to the headboard. Geralt watches, fascinated, as Jaskier trembles and arches, making a series of filthy noises that spark something deep and primal inside him.

When Jaskier tenses and comes, Geralt can smell it, the salty tang of his seed flooding the air even as April swallows it down like the professional she is, and it’s overwhelming and intoxicating.

He thrusts into her harder, his control fraying, eyes drawn to Jaskier who sighs and stretches on the bed, soft and smiling, hair flopping in his eyes. She moans encouragements and Geralt allows himself to let go, to give in to what his body wants, drinking in the view of soft skin and a broad chest and long, dark hair and blue, blue eyes.

It really doesn’t take him long after that. His fingers flex against her hips and with a few final thrusts he’s coming inside her, shuddering as his release races through him, unwinding his tense muscles and flooding his body with a feeling of gasping satisfaction.

He lets himself luxuriate in the feeling for a few seconds, eyes scrunched shut, blood racing through his veins, limbs heavy. 

When he opens his eyes he sees Jaskier looking right at him, studying his face intently. His heart is still racing and the warm, dozy sensation of orgasm makes him feel strangely vulnerable. He quickly looks away, something like guilt flicking through him, then pulls out and offers a polite hand to April. She thanks him with a saucy grin and stands to rearrange her skirt. 

When Jaskier rolls off the bed and goes to fetch his clothes from the floor, April touches Geralt gently on the wrist. “Will you be staying long in town?”

“Leaving tomorrow. Duty calls.”

She nods, understanding. “If you’re ever back in the area, look me up,” she says with what appears to be genuine enthusiasm. “I’m always happy to have repeat customers.” She casts a glance at Jaskier and speaks in a low voice. “Though perhaps next time my presence won’t be necessary, hmm?”

She looks at him like that’s significant. Geralt has no idea what she could possibly mean.


	2. geralt doesn't think about it

Geralt doesn’t think much about that night. Soon enough he and Jaskier are back on the road, and there’s no more idling around having fun in brothels, just the cold hard ground and another monster to slay.

And if, on occasional moments, if he should catch his mind wandering back to April’s soft curves and Jaskier’s blue eyes and find himself growing hard, well then that’s only because they’d been all together that night, and the memory is a source of pleasure for him. Why shouldn’t it be?

And if, at the next town they stop in, when Geralt relaxes in the bath and takes himself in hand, if then he finds the image of broad shoulders and dark hair dusted across a firm chest entering his mind, well than that’s simply his wires getting crossed, associations from the last time he’d been with someone else.

And if, when Jaskier performs in a local tavern and Geralt watches him from a dark corner, if Geralt should find his gaze fixed on his elegant hands and his pursed lips, then that’s because Jaskier is a naturally charismatic performer, and if the thought _I know what he looks like when he comes_ pops into his head, then that’s just the funny sort of thing that happens between friends sometimes.

And if, when Jaskier picks out a pretty girl from the crowd, winking at her and taking her hand, approaching her after the performance and speaking in a low, teasing voice, if then he should feel a jolt of sour jealousy, that’s obviously because he’s jealous that Jaskier has company for the night and he does not.

And if, retreating to their room alone, he feels strangely bereft, then it’s just because he’s grown somehow used to Jaskier’s presence, and he worries that Jaskier will get himself into stupid trouble if Geralt isn’t there to look out for him.

But it’s fine. He doesn’t think about it much at all.


	3. two bros chillin in a hot tub

If Geralt has one weakness in this world, one luxury he looks forward to even more than a trip to the brothel, it’s a trip to the bathhouse. The chance to be clean and warm and to laze in comfort for a few hours is a precious rarity in the life of a witcher, and he hoards those moments jealously.

So when they arrive in a large town on a chilly autumn evening and they pass the steamy, inviting scent of a local bathhouse, Jaskier barely has to give him a plaintive look and he’s already agreeing to stretch their coin.

The main pool is busy, half the town enjoying the heat gently rising from the warm water, and Jaskier has wandered off, presumably to find some attractive young thing to flirt with. Geralt hates the feeling of so many eyes on him so he finds a small room away from the curious looks of the locals. The hexagonal pool set into the floor is filled with sweet-smelling water that warms him down to his bones when he gets in, and he is blissfully alone.

The tile on the bottom of the pool beneath his feet is smooth, mosaiced into an elaborate pattern that he stares at, letting all other thoughts float away.

“Room for one more?”

Geralt is startled out of his reverie by Jaskier, naked and smirking, already climbing into the pool without waiting for assent. He rolls his shoulders as he slides into the water, an expression of comfortable bliss on his face.

The pool is small enough that Jaskier’s long legs stretch most of the way across it, close enough that Geralt could reach out a hand and touch him, feel the curve of his calf under his fingers. Not that he would have any reason to do such a thing.

Jaskier chats away about the local gossip he’s picked up, not requiring any input from Geralt to continue the conversation. And just as well, because there’s this triangle of muscle Geralt can’t stop staring at, stretching from his neck to his shoulder, raised into a ridge that Geralt feels this strong urge to sink his teeth into. He couldn’t say why, only that it looks so very inviting.

“… don’t you think? Geralt?”

Jaskier looks at him expectantly. He has clearly missed something.

He defaults to his typical response: “Hmm.” It seems safe enough.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and goes back to his monologue, and Geralt watches intently as a single drop of water beads on his collarbone, teetering on the crest for a long moment before rolling downward and into the dark hair covering his chest.

Geralt’s fingers itch at his sides, a sort of restless energy tearing through his sense of calm. It’s frustrating that Jaskier has interrupted his peace because he was so very relaxed and now he feels… tense, somehow. Not tense like right before a battle with a dangerous beast or tense like steeling himself against the jeers of angry villagers. But tense like his blood is surging under his skin and thundering in his ears and he’s _hungry_ but that doesn’t make sense because he already ate today and he should feel sated but he _wants_.

The water that had felt so gloriously warm before starts to feel too hot, overwhelming even, and the steam rises into his face and it’s too much, the noise and the heat and casual way Jaskier flicks a wrist as he talks, sending a spray of water arcing across the pool.

A feeling that must be anger jolts through Geralt like lightning and from somewhere deep inside erupts the mad urge to throw himself across the pool, to grab Jaskier around the waist and to clamp a hand over his mouth and to… to…

Something must show on his face, because Jaskier stops talking and cocks his head. “Geralt? You alright?”

Geralt shakes his head sharply, frustrated and short tempered and too damn hot. “I’ve had enough of bathing,” he growls, standing from the pool and pushing himself out, and Jaskier’s eyes go wide as saucers and it’s only as Geralt is walking away that he realises it’s because he is hard as a fucking rock and there’s no way Jaskier didn’t see that.

He storms off, enraged and humiliated at having his precious bath time disrupted and still, for some godsdamn reason, so fucking _hungry_.


	4. sexy gwent

There’s a Gwent tournament on at the bawdy house in town, and Melitele knows Geralt has never been able to resist the lure of that. So he’s dragged Jaskier along and they’re warming up with a couple of friendly rounds, Geralt’s Northern Realms deck against Jaskier’s Scoia'tael.

Jaskier hates Gwent, that much is obvious, but he plays Geralt anyway and Geralt lets himself be indulged. As they play, a couple of the house girls come over to their table, all careful smiles and teasing touches.

Geralt would just as soon focus on the cards, but he knows getting Jaskier to concentrate on a game when there are pretty girls around is a lost cause. One of the girls introduces herself as Violet and settles herself into Geralt’s lap, while her companion makes eyes at Jaskier. Violet’s manner is friendly and flirtatious, if a touch affected, and with an amused huff Geralt slides her enough coin to buy herself a few drinks.

She slips the coins into her top, offering Geralt a view of her chest as she does so, and, feeling very pleased with himself, he looks over the table to meet Jaskier’s eye with as close as he comes to a smirk.

They make a tokenistic effort to continue the game, but it’s clear Jaskier’s heart isn’t in it. He’s sat next to the other girl and whispering in her ear, hand on her thigh. Something about that sparks a challenge in Geralt, and he puts his own hand on Violet’s knee. Her legs swing open, an invitation, and Geralt is pleased to notice that Jaskier’s eyes flick away from the other girl and toward him.

He slips a hand beneath Violet’s skirt and plays his fingers along the inside of her leg, with her giggling and whispering encouragements in his ear. Jaskier’s eyes are flicking rapidly between Geralt’s hand beneath her skirts and his face, an expression that might be bemused disbelief on his face.

Geralt has an urge to show Jaskier that he’s not the only one who’s popular with the ladies, thank you very much, so he shifts his hand higher and boldly flicks a fingertip against her cunt beneath her skirts. She gasps and urges him to do it again, and he rubs his hand against her, slipping a couple of fingers into her wet heat.

Jaskier has gone very still, watching intently. There’s a blush spreading over his cheeks. For a man with a reputation as a famous lover, Geralt thinks, he sure can be bashful when it comes to the actual act.

Geralt continues stroking her, enjoying the way she writhes against him and enjoying even more the weight of Jaskier’s attention focused on him, quiet for once and raptly observing.

He twists his fingers, using his thumb to massage Violet’s clit, and she gasps and rocks against him. More interesting than that is the way Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat, and how he worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

Jaskier’s companion grows bored and excuses herself, off to search for greener pastures. Geralt can’t blame her. He knows that feeling well enough, watching Jaskier turns his attention on someone else. Not that it’s like that between them… It’s just. Well. He gets it.

Violet tucks her face into his neck as he fingers her, feeling her warm and slick around his hand. Jaskier keeps his mouth shut, unusually, and Geralt raises an eyebrow at the sight of him rosy cheeked and breathing heavily. Jaskier blushes deeper but doesn’t break eye contact.

A bit of friendly competition, Geralt thinks, is something they both enjoy.

Violet is panting against him and moaning with a degree of exaggeration which seems somewhat unnecessary. Even so, he doesn’t miss the tiny gasp that escapes Jaskier’s throat when he shifts her and spreads his legs a little wider for a better angle.

Jaskier runs his tongue over his lips like he’s thinking about tasting her, and something about that makes Geralt twist his fingers deeper, coaxing more moans from her which hang in the air over the table.

She bucks against his hand with sharp thrusts, and Geralt’s eye catches on the way Jaskier’s fingers drum restlessly on the table, nails digging into the wood as she comes loudly.

She purrs against him and nips at his earlobe when he removes his hand and wipes it on his trousers. A playful smugness brims inside him, knowing that he has satisfied her and given Jaskier something to think about.

“A pleasure, sweetie,” Violet says, kissing him on the cheek and taking her leave. “I’ll be here all night if you want more.”

He looks back over the table and Jaskier is flushed and panting like _he’s_ the one who’s just been fingered. There’s a joke there somewhere but Geralt’s head has gone a little fuzzy at the thought and he can’t quite put the words into the right order.

He’s aware of his cock heavy in his trousers in a way he wasn’t before, something like embarrassment creeping up around him. He covers it by gathering up the discarded cards from the table and shuffling them, ignoring the scent of her on his fingers.

“Another game?” he offers.

Jaskier shifts in his seat, an expression passing across his face too fast for Geralt to discern it.

“Sure,” Jaskier says, back to business as usual. “Another game.”


	5. geralt has a shame wank

It’s been a hard day’s travel, and it would be a relief to work off some tension. But the village they arrive that night is too small to host a brothel, and that means Geralt will have to go without. He can’t very well impose himself on one of the terrified village ladies, so he sighs and gets to work setting up camp in the woods on the edge of the settlement.

Jaskier never seems to lack partners, though, even without paying. When he suggests, looking down at his fingernails, that he might head out to find some company, Geralt has no reason to object. If the thought makes something sour twist in his stomach, it’s only because he’s perhaps a little jealous of Jaskier’s easy charms with women.

Geralt sends him off, and although he doesn’t intend to pry he’s gotten used to keeping half an ear out for Jaskier when they split up. Because gods know he’s talented at getting himself into trouble, and it really is a small village so it’s not difficult for Geralt to hone in on the sound of his voice in the poky nearby tavern.

He hears Jaskier ordering a drink at the bar, striking up a conversation with the barmaid. Within a few minutes - how does Jaskier _do_ that? - she’s leading him out to a smaller room behind the bar, giggling. A stock room, judging by the clinking of bottles that Geralt can just about pick out.

There’s the sound of laughter, and the rustling of fabric, and the soft slide of skin against skin. Content that Jaskier is not in any immediate danger and should be well entertained for the evening, Geralt retreats his attention. 

He finishes setting up camp. He fidgets on his bedroll. He stokes the fire. He tries to meditate, but he can’t concentrate. Whenever he tries to quiet his mind, all it achieves is focusing back in on the sounds of Jaskier’s breath, his little short gasps, the creak of wooden floorboards.

And every time he hears that, he can’t stop the visuals that come with it: Jaskier, cheeks flushed, quick fingers playing over soft skin. The way he would brace himself against the wall, body arched. The thick set of his shoulders, the curve of his cock heavy against his stomach.

Geralt dismisses the images as the meaningless flickers of memory and directionless desire that they clearly are, but his body hasn’t gotten the message. He’s insistently hard, tenting his trousers, and ignoring it isn’t helping.

It’s so much worse now Geralt has seen it for himself, now he knows what Jaskier looks like when he’s overwhelmed with pleasure and teetering on the verge of orgasm. 

Before - not that he’d thought about it before, not _really_ \- he’d vaguely wondered in passing about whether Jaskier was as noisy in bed as he was the rest of the time, whether his notoriety as a skilled lover was truly deserved. Because those were the sort of things one might naturally wonder about one’s friend, especially when said friend sung salacious songs so often and had a reputation like Jaskier’s.

But now he has _details_ , and he knows exactly what Jaskier sounds like in the midst of pleasure and he’s seen his tender fondness for ladies first hand. It makes it so much harder to banish the thoughts as the idle speculations he knows them to be.

He growls, angry and frustrated and too damn irritated to sleep, and shoves a hand into his trousers to wrap around his cock. The touch alone is enough to make his hips jerk, and he doesn’t want to think about what’s got him so on edge. 

He works himself over, quick and hard, because this isn’t a terribly dignified activity even if it is necessary once in a while, and enjoying it too much seems… distasteful. Shameful. Best to treat is as a simple bodily function. Best not to dwell on it.

But that’s difficult, because no matter how he turns he head he can still hear Jaskier, carrying over the sounds of the animals in the wood and the villagers in their homes, louder than the trees blowing in the wind and the rustling of their leaves. He hears Jaskier gasping out words of encouragement as if he’s right here in the camp, and he hears a wet, sloppy sound that must be the barmaid with her mouth around Jaskier’s cock.

Geralt throws his head back against the ground and scrunches his eyes shut, but that only makes the problem worse because now his mind is flooded with images of Jaskier naked and stretched out on a bed, hard and inviting, and for a mad moment something gets very mixed up in Geralt’s head and he imagines that _he’s_ the one taking Jaskier into his mouth, coaxing those filthy sounds from him.

His cock jerks in his hand, seed dribbling from the tip, and he forcefully snaps his mind back to the here and now, to the physical sensations he’s experiencing: the warmth of his hand, the rough pressure when he squeezes around the head, the tingling pleasure spreading through his body and building in waves. 

That works remarkably well, and he can feel himself approaching completion, chasing after the sensation with increasingly fast strokes. But his concentration slips and suddenly all he can hear is Jaskier moaning, breathlessly saying _that’s it, so good, so good for me, just like that_ , and it sounds so loud and clear it’s like Jaskier is right here and whispering in his goddamn ear, and then he makes this pinched-off gasp that Geralt knows, he _knows_ means that Jaskier is coming, and Geralt loses it and comes all over his hand and his chest with a wretched groan.

He flops against his bedroll and stares up at the stars. The stars stare back, unmoved. The tingling satisfaction of orgasm quickly departs, leaving him feeling empty and, for some reason, strangely guilty. He grabs an old shirt from his pack and wipes himself down, embarrassment racing through him as he smells his own seed staining the fabric. 

In the distance, he hears Jaskier whispering sweet words of thanks and adoration to the girl before taking his leave. Geralt buries himself in his bedroll and tries to block out the world. 

Alas, all that achieves is cocooning himself in with the lingering scent of his release, his humiliation and shame written across the air itself.

When Jaskier arrives back in camp, he feigns sleep. It’s better that way, for both of them.


	6. platonic lap sitting

The tavern is rowdy and crowded, and Jaskier works the room with his usual flair, bringing out his dirtiest songs and winking and flirting as he goes.

Geralt ignores it, mostly, concentrating on his beer, but Jaskier is drawing attention from all quarters and more and more people start packing the tavern until even Geralt’s dark corner is full, strangers pulling up chairs and sitting at his table.

Ending his performance with a rousing rendition of _Toss a Coin_ and a flourish, Jaskier basks in the crowd’s cheers for a moment before gathering up his coin and his lute and grabbing a drink. Spotting Geralt in the corner, he makes his way over and raises an eyebrow at the crowded table.

“Needs must, I suppose,” he announces, and, with a pounce, settles himself in Geralt’s lap. Geralt is too startled to react, because _what the fuck_ , and Jaskier is already chatting away to the young couple sitting opposite, as if it were perfectly normal for him to plunk himself down on top of Geralt like this.

A muscle twitches in Geralt’s jaw. It’s awfully presumptuous of Jaskier to treat him as his own personal chair, and he’s sure they’re going to draw attention and hateful looks. But no one else seems to be paying them the slightest mind, despite Jaskier’s indiscreet behaviour.

Jaskier smells like musky sweat and lavender oil, the scent suffusing the air around him, and beneath that there’s a lingering scent of sex, which is odd because he and Jaskier have been together for the whole last week and Geralt is pretty sure he would have noticed if Jaskier had found a bedmate.

Then he thinks back to how earlier today Jaskier was taking a bath while he was meditating, and it occurs to him that Jaskier must have been pleasuring himself, hand around his cock with Geralt in the room, and that he can still smell the lingering scent of his release. And now Geralt can’t help but picture it, Jaskier getting himself off, biting down on his hand to muffle the noises, face flushed as he tries to stay quiet. He inhales sharply, forcefully banishing the image from his head.

But it’s too late, because he realises with a creeping sense of mortification that he’s getting hard, his cock filling out, oblivious to how much his mind wants anything but that, his body responding to the mere concept of sex in a way he can’t help. Jaskier’s weight is pushing down on him, and he can’t let Jaskier notice, he just _can’t_.

And now Jaskier won’t stop moving, gesturing wildly and shifting his weight from one side to the other, and each time he does Geralt feels himself get a little harder, and he has no idea how to extricate himself from this situation and his temper is flaring.

“Will you _stop fidgeting_?” he growls, unable to keep the sharp edge out of his voice.

Jaskier turns and gives him a look, something perplexed in his expression, and as he twists around his ass brushes up more firmly against Geralt’s cock and his eyes go very wide.

“Oh,” he says as understanding dawns, a little breathless. “Oh, _Geralt-”  
_

Geralt doesn’t want to hear whatever crude joke Jaskier is going to make. “Shut up, Jaskier,” he snaps.

Jaskier looks for a long moment like he’s considering arguing, but eventually he tilts his head in acquiesce and turns back to his drink. Geralt lets out a slow exhale of relief.

Jaskier is chronically incapable of sitting still though, and he keeps shifting against Geralt’s lap whenever he waves a hand or leans forward over the table. He keeps grinding down on Geralt’s cock, and the teasing pressure is becoming more than Geralt can bear.

He’s deep in animated conversation with their tablemates, chattering away about music and monsters and local gossip, but all Geralt can focus on is the touch and the heat against his cock, the smell of Jaskier in his nostrils, and the sly glances Jaskier keeps casting over his shoulder at him like this is some kind of fun little game.

At one point, Jaskier reaches down to take Geralt’s hand, and without pausing in his conversation, he boldly places it on his thigh. Geralt stares, dumbstruck at the audacity of it, the rich silk of Jaskier’s trousers smooth beneath his fingers with the firm muscle of Jaskier’s leg beneath. His fingers flex into the meat of his thigh in annoyance and Jaskier pushes back, rubbing his ass into Geralt in a way that must be deliberate and Geralt can hardly breathe.

It’s all too much, the physicality of it, the sensations and the urge to rut his hips up against the warm swell of Jaskier’s ass, and his fingers are shaking and he’s hit with a bolt of mortification that runs down to his bones because he’s actually going to come in his trousers like a damn teenager if this doesn’t stop soon. 

He can’t deal with this, he absolutely can’t, his body betraying him and his mind in a whirlwind of panic, and there’s blood rushing in his ears and heat crawling up the back of his neck, and then something inside him snaps.

“Get the fuck off me,” he barks, shoving Jaskier forcefully off his lap. Jaskier splutters but he doesn’t stop to explain himself, storming off toward the tavern door. He doesn’t know where he’s going, only sure that he has to get away, his breathing laboured, shame running through him like a river.

He pretends not to notice Jaskier’s look of hurt as he leaves.


	7. sexy sparring

Geralt is teaching Jaskier to fight, and it’s not going well.

Jaskier is trying his best, but his stamina is lacking and he’s stumbling through the footwork drills. It’s remarkable, actually, that someone so skilled with his hands could be so poor on his feet.

Giving up on footwork for now, Geralt fetches a small dagger and patiently shows him how to hold it, wrapping his own sturdy hands around Jaskier’s elegant fingers and explaining how to thrust and slash. He tries to demonstrate parrying technique by standing behind him and guiding his arm, their bodies moving as one, but Jaskier seems distracted and fidgety as they practise.

This isn’t working, Geralt decides. Jaskier is no witcher, and he can’t train him like one. He needs a new approach.

“You’re never going to win a fair fight against anyone bigger than a small child,” he says, flatly, and Jaskier gasps and puts a hand to his chest in offence. “So don’t fight fair. You need to make use of distractions. If there’s a candle nearby, burn them. If you’ve got a bottle, hit them over the head with it. Throw sand in their face and knee them in the balls. And then run.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow as he considers this. “Distractions. Right.”

He begins circling Geralt with a predatory smirk, and it’s cute that he’s trying. He lunges at him with the dagger, miles wide. Geralt deflects it easily, but Jaskier doesn’t retreat like he expects. Instead, he drops the dagger from his right hand and steps right into Geralt’s space to grab a handful of his ass with his left.

Geralt is so shocked by the effrontery of Jaskier’s hand on his ass that he stumbles for a second, and Jaskier pounces. He throws himself bodily and inelegantly at Geralt, who steps back to absorb his weight but trips over a tree root.

They both go flying through the air and Geralt lands on his back in the dirt with a surprised huff _._ Once he processes what the hell just happened, he’s honestly slightly impressed.

Jaskier kneels over him, eyes bright with a triumphant grin on his face. “Distractions like that?” he asks. He laughs, warm and melodic, and it really is a beautiful sound and it has the corners of Geralt’s mouth twitching up in a smile he’s fighting to hide.

“Vesemir never suggested that particular tactic to me, but sure, if it works.” He might be smiling in earnest now.

He’s not about to let Jaskier get away with that kind of impudence unchallenged though, so he twists his hips and uses one foot to push off from the ground, rolling them both in one swift motion until Jaskier is beneath him. Geralt settles smugly on his thighs, grabbing Jaskier’s wrists and pinning them above his head before he has time to react.

They’re face to face like this, and Geralt’s attention is drawn to the flush on Jaskier’s cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes. Something mischevious urges him to spreads his knees, clamping Jaskier deeper between his legs, and Jaskier’s breath hitches.

“Can’t let your attention wander in a fight,” he says, keeping his voice pitched low and enjoying the way Jaskier squirms beneath him. “Never know who might take advantage of that.”

Jaskier smells of sweat from his earlier exertions, overlaid with Geralt’s own scent from weeks of sharing space and clothes and supplies. Their scents blend together and the musky perfume of the two of them combined triggers something base and carnal that runs like quicksilver under Geralt’s skin.

He leans closer in, playful in his victory, and as he does his cock drags noticeably against Jaskier’s stomach. He’s hard, somehow, and as he shifts he feels that Jaskier is too, a hot firm length pressed up against his ass, and it vaguely occurs to him that should be alarming but it doesn’t seem important right now. He’s overcome by an urge to rock his hips back, pushing their cocks together with a heavy slide which sends sparks radiating through his body.

It feels so good, so without thinking he does it again, rubbing against Jaskier’s solid weight beneath him. The pressure feels perfect as they grind together, friction building into a sloppy rhythm and Jaskier’s mouth falls open and he gets out a breathy, “Fuck, _Geralt-”_

And then his brain suddenly catches up with what the fuck his body is doing, rutting against Jaskier like a damn animal, and he freezes as embarrassment creeps up his spine.

Jaskier is flushed beneath him, eyes wide and breathing heavily in something which could be either arousal or fear, and he doesn’t know which of those would be worse. Either Geralt has scared the shit out of him with his prurient behaviour, or Jaskier is even more fucked up than he thought, to have that reaction to some witcher desperately pawing at him. He scrambles to his feet, swaying with unusual clumsiness, heart racing and shame prickling the back of his neck.

Jaskier sits up, giving him a confused look like he’s about to ask what the fuck is going on, and Geralt absolutely can’t answer that because he has no idea himself.

“Lesson’s over,” he grunts, barely resisting the urge to just fucking run. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

He turns and walks away as quickly as he can, resolutely ignoring the way his cock is tenting his trousers. 

There’s an icy river nearby, and now seems like the perfect time for a dip.


	8. awkward dream boners

Geralt dreams most often of death. Not his own, but all those he has failed to prevent. Villagers and princesses, the cursed and the merely human, names long since lost from his memory but faces remaining. Their bloody hands clasp at his wrists and pull at his legs but no matter how hard he fights they are dead, always dead, dead already and he is powerless in the face of that.

But some nights… some nights are different. Most often, they are different when Jaskier is beside him. When they’ve not enough coin for two rooms and they’re crammed together in one bed in a shitty inn, or when they’re camping under the stars and the frost is encroaching and they huddle together for warmth. On those nights, with a familiar warmth pressed close to him and a comforting smell of Jaskier in his nose, then his dreams differ.

He dreams of sparkling blue eyes and quick fingers dancing across skin, of lightning fast touches, there and then gone, each building into a crescendo of heat and sensation. He dreams of a voice, strong and melodic, and he dreams of that voice cracking into gasps and moans and hitching breaths.

When it’s been too long since he saw to his body’s needs, he dreams of plump lips pouting and smirking, stretching around his fingers until it is as if he can feel the wet heat of a tongue lapping at him. His faceless partner takes him in hand, firm around his cock the way he likes it, stroking him confidently and on the very edge of his hearing there’s a voice saying _that’s it, so good for me, I know what you need, I’ve got you_. 

On nights when he is most weak it is worse still, and he dreams of himself spread open and vulnerable, hands petting through his hair and caressing his body in a way he knows he is unworthy of, gentle fingers opening him up and pushing inside of him, and it’s like floating into the air when something breaches him utterly, spearing him to the core, and then the voice says ridiculous things like _you’re beautiful_ and _you deserve to feel good_ and _let me make you happy._

The mortification he feels upon waking from such absurdity is only compounded when he slides back into consciousness to find that he has rolled over in the night and has his arms around Jaskier, holding him tight like a talisman, his dick hard and wanting against Jaskier’s sleeping form, and it takes monumental effort to remind his confused body _that is not what this is_ , that he is muddled and needing and it’s time to head to the brothel again.

And then it takes all of his skill to unwind himself and shift from the bed without waking Jaskier to witness his debasement, and on some mornings he truly can’t help himself but to slip away to find a quiet corner and to take himself in hand and bring himself off to the memories of that voice and those fingers, and he can only hope that the cloud of shame which wraps around him as he does so will disperse with the rising sun.

It never does.


	9. wank in a bowl, as you do

“You want us to do _what_?”

“It’s for Belleteyn, see.” The young woman smiles, not apologetically. “It’s the fertility festival tonight, to bless the crops for the coming year. And we need… contributions.”

Jaskier swallows. “And you think _we_ should be the ones to contribute?”

The woman shrugs. “Every household need to bring an offering of seed. And it’s just me and my Amy at home, so we’ve naught to offer. Help us out with this, and we’ll give you coin for the job and a place to stay.”

He looks to Geralt. As tempting as the offer of coin and a warm bed is, surely Geralt will turn them down. Surely he wouldn’t agree to -

“We’ll do it,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s eyes go wide.

–

“How does this work, exactly?” Jaskier tries to remain unruffled as the woman, Mara, leads them to a quiet patch of forest and places a wooden bowl in front of them.

“It’s simple enough, sweetie,” she says, instructing him and Geralt to kneel in the dirt. “You both, you know -” she makes an illustrative gesture, which makes Jaskier’s cheeks heat “- and finish yourselves off into that bowl as best you can. The more seed we collect, the better the crops will grow.”

Right. _Right_. Of course. Wank off into a bowl with your best friend watching. Just another May Day on the Continent.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Mara says. “I’ll be back later to collect the offering.”

She leaves, and it’s suddenly very quiet, just him and Geralt and the sound of the wind in the trees.

“Shall we… I suppose we better get to it, then.” He’s trying not to look at Geralt but he’s intensely aware of amber eyes boring into him. He glances up and Geralt is regarding him intently, something unreadable on his face.

This is only going to get more awkward the longer they put it off, so Jaskier steels himself and unlaces his breeches. He’s never been shy about his body or his desires, but doing this is front of Geralt is making him feel particularly exposed.

He shoves his hand into his breeches, and he’s not even sure he’s going to be able to get hard now, with how jittery he’s feeling, but then Geralt’s breath hitches for a second, quiet enough that most people wouldn’t notice. But Jaskier is not most people.

He looks up at Geralt from under his lashes. Geralt is breathing heavier than normal and his pupils are blown into black discs. Interesting.

 _Oh_. Getting hard was not going to be a problem, apparently, not with Geralt looking at him like that. He takes his cock out, gives it an experimental stroke. Geralt wets his lips with his tongue, seemingly unconsciously.

He begins to work himself over, nice and slow and teasing to begin with, the way he likes it. Geralt’s gaze leaves points of burning hot on his skin everywhere it touches him.

Before long Geralt starts rubbing himself through his trousers, and Jaskier can see his monstrously large cock hard against his thigh through the fabric. The sight makes his hand work faster.

A tiny breathy sound escapes from Geralt’s throat, and Jaskier is astonished that he could sound so needy. He certainly is learning a lot today.

Geralt relents soon enough, unlacing his own trousers to take himself in hand. Or, as much as can be fit into one hand, in any rate. Jaskier dizzily tries to calculate how much of that he could fit in his hand, his mouth, his ass. He so very much wants to find out.

Jaskier is a man with prodigious needs, so he’s taken care of himself quickly and quietly on plenty of occasions. He knows how to get himself off efficiently and with minimal fuss. He would have guessed the same was true of Geralt, so he’s somewhat astonished when Geralt turns out to be _noisy_.

There are little gasps when Jaskier twists his hand around his cock head, hums of pleasure when Geralt brings up his free hand to play with his balls, and an honest to god groan when Jaskier runs a rough thumb over his slit, making him shiver.

Any thoughts of trying to make this last or pretending he’s not enjoying himself go flying when Geralt’s mouth falls open, staring at him like he wants to devour him whole.

It really doesn’t take much time until heat is racing through his veins and his muscles are contracting and he’s cresting on waves of sensation and lust, Geralt’s eyes fixed on him all the while. He barely remembers to aim at the bowl lying between them before he’s coming, heady and overwhelming, a rush of pleasure and pressure racing through him. 

He heaves in huge lungfuls of air before settling back on his heels with a soaring feeling of lightness like an oppressive weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

He dares to glance back at Geralt, and he looks _wrecked_. Sweat is running down his temples and his pupils are blown so wide his eyes are entirely black, no trace of amber remaining. His hand is working in uncoordinated strokes, and Jaskier has never seen him so clumsy. Within seconds he’s gasping and coming in long, thick ropes, messy and copious and more than Jaskier would have imagined possible for one man. 

Geralt works himself through it, hand still in motion, and as he does something garbled falls from his lips which could possibly be Jaskier’s name. 

But he’s surely just imagining that.

–

Amy looks down at the bowl and beams at the plentiful offering. The gods will be pleased.

Mara comes up behind her and wraps her arms around her waist. “The witcher and the bard are settled in the spare cottage.” She pecks a kiss to her cheek. “Shall we go and enjoy the festivities?”

“Let’s. But… should we have told them they didn’t actually need to do that together? Each alone would have worked just as well.”

Mara laughs. “I wouldn’t worry about it, my dearest. I’m pretty sure they enjoyed themselves plenty.”


	10. sad handjobs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the fun and supportive comments! I've been having a lot of fun writing this series and I hope you're enjoying reading it too.
> 
> This chapter is rather sad but we will be back to fun silliness shortly.

“Absolutely not,” the madam says, contempt in her eyes. “This is a respectable establishment. We don’t serve your sort here.”

Geralt lets out a puff of air, disappointed but not surprised. Jaskier looks ready to leap over the counter and fight her himself though, so he lays a hand on his arm to stop him. “I understand.” He turns to leave.

On the walk back to their campsite, Jaskier is _livid_. It’s almost endearing.

“How dare she! _Your sort_ , she says, as if bedding a witcher was some kind of shame! The damned cheek. She and everyone else in the backwards village would be up to their arses in kikimores by now if it weren’t for you.”

“It’s alright, Jaskier,” he says. This is hardly the first time he’s been turned away from a brothel. “She was only looking out for her girls. I’m not going to force anyone to sleep with me, even for coin. I would never do that.”

Jaskier’s face softens. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

Geralt doesn’t question why Jaskier has chosen to return to camp with him, even when he would have been more than welcome to stay. He’d noticed the girls eyeing him from the back room. He appreciates the display of solidarity, such as it is.

They settle into their practiced habits of setting up camp, and with the fire built Jaskier sits himself beside Geralt, a line of warmth along his side in the cool night air.

“It must be disappointing, not getting what you wanted from the brothel,” Jaskier says, breaking the silence. He inspects his fingernails, seemingly as casual as ever. “I could help you out, if you like.”

Geralt squints at him. He surely can’t be offering what it sounds like. “I would never ask that of you,” he says, stiffly. No matter what people think, he’s not a monster. He does have some decency.

“You’re not asking,” Jaskier says. He puts a hand on Geralt’s knee. His touch burns through the fabric. “I’m offering.”

Geralt looks at Jaskier’s hand on his leg. He looks back up at Jaskier’s face. He finds no disgust there, no hesitation.

“I know it’s not what you want,” Jaskier says. “But a hand’s a hand. You can… lie back and think of girls, or whatever.” His face twists into something sad for a moment, but then it’s gone and replaced with a wolfish grin. “I’ll make it good for you.”

That’s… it’s not… It’s _wrong_ , Geralt knows it, but he does want something and Jaskier is right here and offering. It’s not as if it would be the first time. Back at Kaer Morhen, he and the other boys had taken care of each other on occasion. It was… well, it was necessary sometimes. It didn’t have to mean anything.

A hand was a hand, after all.

“Hmm,” he says. Jaskier knows that means _yes_.

He lets Jaskier lay out both of their bedrolls together. He lets Jaskier pull him to his feet, then lie him down on his side. He lets Jaskier scoot in close behind him, his chest pressed to Geralt’s back, his hand on his hip.

This is fine. This is nothing they haven’t done a hundred times when the nights are cold.

And then Jaskier’s hand is sliding forward, carefully, teasing at the line where his leg meets his torso, just far enough away to maintain plausible deniability.

Geralt is shocked by how fast his body responds, by how much he wants this. It has been a lonely few weeks on the road, certainly, but now all those weeks of wanting have been sharpened to a hot point of desire focused in on where Jaskier’s hand slides across his body and carefully starts unlacing his trousers.

It feels like he might burst, like he might float away into the sky, and he doesn’t know what’s got him so dizzy. He’s not normally like this, not with the ladies he visits at brothels. That is a business transaction, a simple trading of services for coin.

This is not that. This is -

He doesn’t have time to think about what this is, because now Jaskier’s hand is slipping into his trousers and running delicate calloused fingertips along his cock and the feeling of skin on skin is sending him reeling.

He gulps in a breath of air, and Jaskier’s voice is at his ear, low and soft, telling him, “That’s it,” and “Just relax for me,” and “Let me help you.” 

He turns his face away so that Jaskier won’t have to see him, raw and exposed already. Jaskier’s hand fists around him and slides up and down his length, careful, patient, and it’s making something barbed twist beneath his rib cage.

He shoves back the feelings that are threatening to engulf him, focuses on the basic carnal pleasure of a hand moving against him. He tries to imagine it’s a girl, like Jaskier told him to, to imagine it’s the comely lass from the last brothel he’d visited, stout and vivacious and with a laugh like honey.

But it doesn’t matter what images he conjures up in his mind’s eye, because the hand currently wrapped around his cock doesn’t smell like her or like any of the girls he’s been with. It smells like _Jaskier_ , lavender oil and the linseed he uses on his lute and the underlying smoky scent of hundreds of campfires shared.

There are tears welling up unbidden in his eyes, and that’s even more mortifying than being the subject of a pity wank, so Geralt buries his face into the bedroll and recedes into himself, drawing up the walls until he’s surrounded by a comfortable numbness, until thoughts about Jaskier and the light of the fire and what they are doing are far, far away.

“Hey.” The voice is very quiet in his ear, and there’s a hand stroking ever so gently through his hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

And Geralt hates that, hates Jaskier for seeing through him, because he was safe behind his walls and Jaskier has come barging in and demolished them all with a few careless words once again.

He wrestles his emotions back into order, years of practice fueling him, and wonders what the hell it is about a simple hand around his cock that’s got him so affected. It’s not as if this is his first time, not by several decades.

And yet he feels like he‘s falling, the open sky beneath him and the wind whistling through his hair, and while there’s an exciting thrum building in him now he knows that soon enough he will hit the ground and be irrevocably damaged by it.

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier says in his ear, and it’s so tender and so soft with understanding that Geralt’s fist clenches in anger. Because that is not how this is supposed to go. This is supposed to be a quick hand in the dark from a stranger, or if he can‘t pretend that, then it could at least be a grand performance of Jaskier, The Famous Womanizer, all artful tricks and cocky swagger.

There is none of that here. There is only a familiar arm around his waist and a familiar hand around his cock and a familiar voice whispering kind, caring words in his ear as if… as if they were _lovers_. As if this could be something other than sordid and shameful.

He should never have agreed to this. This fall was going to kill him, if not now then sooner or later, and he’d have no one to blame but himself.

“Stop dicking about,” he growls, voice as icy and harsh as he can make it. “And get the fuck on with it.”

He feels Jaskier stiffen against him, smells his uneasiness, senses his hesitation. But Jaskier has always known what he needs without him having to articulate it, and, even more remarkably, has always been willing to give it. He takes a few breaths and regroups, squeezing his fist tighter, pumping faster.

“I see. Is this what you want? You like it like that? You like it hard?” Jaskier’s voice carries a filthy edge to it, and Geralt shudders in relief. This, he can deal with.

He grunts, but his responses don’t matter. Jaskier keeps it up, hissing filth into his ear and jerking him hard enough to teeter on the borderline of pain.

It’s fast and vicious and nothing about it is tender, and finally Geralt can breathe and lose himself in the tight, harsh efficiency of it, brutal and to the point.

“Yeah, that’s what you were waiting for wasn’t it? You’re desperate for it,” Jaskier says, and Geralt bites down to stop himself from whining. “Come on then, come for me.”

He fucking does, like all it takes is for Jaskier to order him about and his body unquestioningly obeys, and he’s spilling over Jaskier’s hand and he can’t stop the reedy little noise which escapes from his throat as he does so.

Jaskier works him through it, finally letting up the harsh pressure of his hand. With a satisfied hum he tucks his cock away and wipes his hand off on Geralt’s trousers. Geralt can’t be too resentful about that.

Still, it takes only minutes for the warm fuzzy feeling of orgasm to recede and for the guilt to kick in, because he’s lying here sated and Jaskier is still there right behind him and Geralt can’t bring himself to look at his face.

A creeping sense of unease is building into something approaching dread, because he ought to be a decent person and make a joke now, show that he appreciates the friendly hand and that they’ll be back to normal in the morning. Should even offer to repay the favour, probably, as much as the idea of offering that opens up a pit in his stomach.

But he can’t bring himself to turn over, to see what’s in those distractingly blue eyes, always too expressive, everything Jaskier feels right there offered up to him on a platter. He’s terrified of what he might find there.

After an interminable minute of silence, Jaskier lets out the tiniest sigh. He sits up and pats him on the hip. “Hope that helped,” he says, voice airy but not quite convincingly light. “Good night, Geralt.”

Then he’s turning away and moving his bedroll to the other side of the fire, and Geralt doesn’t miss the feeling of his body pressed up against his own, he _doesn’t_.

“Night, Jaskier,” he grunts, keeping his back to the fire and to Jaskier.

He can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, feel the edge of an unspoken question boring into the space between his shoulder blades.

He doesn’t turn around.


	11. what's a little bro job between friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading along and commenting, it has been so fun to see everyone's reactions! 
> 
> Now we're back to our usual fare of Dumb and Horny, coming right up.

“Gods damn it, Jaskier.”

Jaskier grins, lopsided and unapologetic, as he scurries over to Geralt at high speed. “What can I say? I’m weak in the face of life’s pleasures. And how was I to know the lady was promised to another? I barely had time to introduce myself before the ruffian and his friends took offence.”

“There he is!” a rough voice carries through the street. “Get the little rat bastard!”

Geralt isn’t about to draw his sword over this kind of petty squabble, so he grabs Jaskier’s hand and runs. For all his bluster, Jaskier does sometimes know when to shut his mouth and move his feet. He stays close on Geralt’s heels as they dodge around carts and through gaps between houses, the sound of their pursuers not far behind.

They break into an alleyway, mostly shaded by the slanting roof of the building next door. For a moment, it seems like they’ve lost the crowd of angry men following them and Geralt starts to relax. But then he spots the gang spilling into the nearby square, faces red and voices raised.

 _Shit._ The walls of the alley are too high to climb, and the only way out is back into the square. And while Geralt has a dark cloak with a hood pulled up to hide his face, Jaskier is dressed in a bright blue doublet which is visible for miles.

If they can’t run and Geralt doesn’t want to fight, they need to hide. He looks round at Jaskier, who is chewing nervously on his lip. Without thinking, Geralt shoves him up against the alley wall, hiding his doublet under the black cloak, and kisses him.

Jaskier lets out a surprised _mppgh_ sort of noise and his heartbeat rockets, but he doesn’t pull away. Jaskier’s lips are soft under Geralt’s, and his hands go around Geralt’s waist to tug him closer. 

When they break apart, he can feel Jaskier’s hot, quick breaths against his neck as he tries to catch sight of the men without giving their position away.

“Eh, it’s just some traveller getting his end away,” the one who seems to be the leader says, looking in their direction. “The damned bard must have made a run for it northwards, let’s go look there.”

Satisfied the immediate danger has passed, Geralt looks back at Jaskier. His cheeks are pink and he’s breathing heavily. It must be from all that running.

“Are they gone?” Jaskier asks, a little breathless.

Geralt focuses his hearing on the men. They do appear to be leaving, but there are some stragglers still in the square. “Not all of them,” he says, voice low.

“Then kiss me again.”

That seems… only reasonable, doesn’t it?

This time, Geralt puts a hand around the back of Jaskier’s head and brings their lips together slowly. Jaskier arches against him, and he certainly is dedicated to this performance. Makes sense that a professional musician would be a committed actor as well.

As their lips meet, Jaskier moans, and Geralt uses the opportunity to slide his tongue into his mouth. He tastes of sweet wine and spices, and it’s delicious and compelling. Jaskier’s hands slide into his hair, tugging gently at the locks, and Geralt gasps against Jaskier’s mouth.

If they’re going to throw off the last of their pursuers, Geralt thinks, they’d better _really_ sell it. So he pushes a leg between Jaskier’s thighs, growling with satisfaction when Jaskier grabs his forearms and rocks against him, warm and heavy, moving against him in languid rolls.

The next time they break apart, they’re both breathing heavily. The excitement of the chase, or something, Geralt thinks. He pushes back his hood to listen and the square beyond the alley is notably quieter now, with no sounds of angry voices.

There’s no reason to tarry, then, although Geralt feels a strange twinge of regret at that thought. He covers it by focusing on actions instead. “Let’s go, then,” he says, stepping back to a reasonable distance. “Best get you far away from here.”

“Um.” Jaskier’s cheeks colour a shade darker, and there’s something enchanting about that. “You might need to. Ahh. Give me a minute or two.” He gestures vaguely at his trousers, where he is blatantly and very prominently hard.

Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “Oh,” he says. Well, that was just a body’s natural response to certain things, wasn’t it? Jaskier’s dick didn’t know that they were only kissing as a ruse, as a clever plan to hide from an angry mob. It was even kind of complimentary, in a way.

Inconvenient, though, for both of them. He couldn’t very well march Jaskier through the town square looking like this; that would only attract more attention.

“Why don’t I help you out with that?” The words are out of his mouth before he has time to doubt them. But anyway, it’s a perfectly sensible plan. Efficient, even.

Jaskier‘s jaw drops. “You mean. Um…”

Much more efficient, Geralt decides, to deal with the situation head on, as it were. He takes a step closer and drops to his knees. He looks up at Jaskier and raises one eyebrow: An invitation. A challenge.

“Okay,” Jaskier says, though he sounds strangely strangled. “Fuck, okay then.” He starts to undo the laces of his trousers, but his fingers are jittery. Geralt smacks his hands away and takes over the task himself. It’s easier for both of them that way.

With the fiddly laces out of the way, when Geralt reaches into his trousers he’s greeted by the thick, musky smell of Jaskier, all spicy arousal. He buries his face into the hair at the base of his cock and _inhales_. He’s getting himself ready for the action, he reasons, and lets himself enjoy the intensity of Jaskier’s scent.

Jaskier’s cock is heavy and warm in his hand, and although it’s been an awfully long time since he’s done this he’s pretty sure he’ll remember how. He licks a tentative stripe up his cock from root to tip, and Jaskier makes a garbled noise and fists his hands into Geralt’s hair.

Well then. So far, so good.

He takes the tip of his cock into his mouth, and the tasty is salty and rich but not unpleasant. Emboldened, he sucks down a few more inches and feels Jaskier’s fingers dig into his scalp. That seems to be a good sign.

He pulls back, and then swallows down more in an experimental slide, and he has to hold onto Jaskier’s hips to keep him in place. It’s easy, actually, to find a rhythm, taking in as much as he can before pulling back and hollowing his cheeks. He risks glancing up at Jaskier as he works, and Jaskier is delightfully rumpled, with hair flopping in his face and jaw slack in wonder.

It’s nice, Geralt thinks, to be able to help out a friend in need. He doesn’t do well with words, not like Jaskier, and he knows he’s not the most emotionally expressive of people. He‘s more of a man of action. And if this particular action is what’s necessary to keep them both safe and whole and unmolested by angry mobs, then he’s happy to step up and do what’s required.

As he works Jaskier over his own dick is throbbing in his pants, though obviously that’s just some kind of sympathy response. He ignores it, as he ignores the way his hips are stuttering, pushing his cock up against the rough fabric of his trousers.

It’s simple enough to lose himself in the rhythmic motions, the feel of spit-slick cock gliding through his lips, the gasps and moans he gets from Jaskier as he works. It’s heady, a feeling almost like power, knowing he can do this for Jaskier, can make his eyes roll back and his breath short.

He takes a sharp breath through his nose and takes Jaskier’s cock all the way down, bumping up against the back of his throat and shoving his nose into the thick, musky scent of the hair around his cock, and Jaskier lets out the most glorious noise and his fingers close around Geralt’s hair and _yank_ , and all of a sudden Geralt’s head is reeling and his vision whites out and he’s coming, cock spraying messily inside his trousers, heat racing through his body.

Huh. He has no idea where that came from. Clearly he’s more on edge than he had thought, and he’s not been taking care of his body’s need as he should. But he’s soon distracted as he pulls back to stop himself from choking and takes in the sight of Jaskier, biting his bottom lip hard enough to bleed and staring at him unabashedly.

This shouldn’t take long, he thinks. He tugs at Jaskier’s hips and it only takes a few thrusts before Jaskier starts mumbling some kind of warning, hands scrabbling and voice hoarse. But Geralt ignores him and stays at his task, a swell of something that must be accomplishment building inside him as Jaskier tenses and spills down his throat, thick and salty and rich.

He does his best to swallow it down – it seems only polite – and sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Fuck, Geralt -” Jaskier seems to be having some difficulty standing, judging by the way he’s wobbling against the wall. “That was -”

“Necessary,” Geralt says firmly. “Now we can be safely on our way.”

Jaskier collects himself and raises an eyebrow. “But first, I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t return the favour.” He smiles, soft and playful as he tucks himself away and laces his trousers. “It’s terrible bad luck to leave such a debt unpaid.”

Jaskier always did value fairness, Geralt thinks, but now his current state renders that rather moot. “That won’t be necessary,” he says, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, looking, he could swear, a little disappointed. Until his eyes flick to the wet patch on Geralt’s trousers and go very wide. “ _Oh_ ,” he says, again, and Geralt has the horrifying feeling he’s going to start _talking about it_ so he quickly cuts him off.

“Time we moved on,” he grunts, to the point. No need to make the situation weird. “It‘s not safe here.”

“Fine,” Jaskier says, still a little wobbly, helping Geralt to his feet. “Well, then, um. Thank you, I suppose.”

Geralt nods, satisfied. “What are friends for?”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow, like he’s considering starting an argument. He’s probably going to go on a rant about how it’s taken Geralt two decades to admit that they are, in fact, friends. But he seems to consider better and relents, letting out a breath of air in one big puff.

“Friends,” he says, something dubious in his voice. “Right.”


	12. a friend in need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep getting delightful and compelling ideas for new chapters, so I've bumped up the chapter count somewhat. Even MORE dumb and horny, coming soon.

It’s been a hard, dirty month on the road, and Geralt’s temper is short and his patience is frayed. To make it worse, it’s like Jaskier picks up on his mood and reflects it back at him, the two of them griping and grumbling at each other about the weather, the contracts, whose turn it is to find the firewood.

By the time night falls and they’re lying either side of the fire on their bedrolls, they’re both wound up tight and snappish.

“What I wouldn’t give for a tavern with a hot meal and a cold ale,” Jaskier sighs, dramatic as ever. “And an inn with a comfortable bed, and a brothel with some pretty girls.”

“Not likely to find that here in the wilderness,” Geralt grunts.

“And alas for that! A man has needs, you know. Even a single girl would suffice.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Would it? And I suppose I’d be expected to lie here while you and your girl enjoy yourselves, hmm?”

“Don’t be silly. We could share.”

“I see you have this all planned out. What did you have in mind?”

A sharp intake of breath. “You want _details_?”

Geralt considers. Feels the restless thrum under his skin that had been bothering him all day. “… Yes.”

“Oh. Hmm.” Jaskier pauses, apparently weighing his words. “You’d be lying down on your back. She’d be on top of you, riding your cock.”

Yeah, he could go for that right now. He thinks about the fiery redhead he’d seen at one of the brothels last time they were in Novigrad. Small, round breasts and milky white skin dotted with freckles. Pictures her on top of him, like Jaskier said. The pent-up feeling sharpens into want, and he feels himself growing hard.

“It would feel so good,” Jaskier says, “her hot and tight around you, slick and smooth as you watch your cock slide into her.”

Jaskier certainly does have a way with words, and when he closes his eyes Geralt can almost feel it: the pretty girl above him, the cold ground beneath, their bodies moving as one. 

He dips a hand into the waistband of his trousers, flitting fingers across the head of his cock. 

“She’d be so wet for you. She’s been wanting you for so long. She’d take it all, everything you’ve got to give, and she’d moan for you so sweetly.”

Gods, he wants that. Unable to resist, Geralt shoves his trousers down and grips his cock. Jaskier won’t mind, right? He’s pretty sure Jaskier won’t mind.

“And what would you be doing?” he asks, not wanting Jaskier to stop talking.

“I’d be behind her, touching her breasts and kissing her neck. Lots of people are sensitive there, you know. I might use a little bit of teeth if she likes that.”

Geralt grunts. He doesn’t look at Jaskier, but he feels his eyes on him, making his skin prickle under the scrutiny. He doesn’t want to think about how he looks right now, pleasuring himself in the firelight, hand around his cock, so hard and needy.

“And I’d hold her hips, make sure she rides you nice and slow. Make it a tease, get you all worked up.”

He can imagine it vividly: the feel of her around him, the languid, soft rolls of her body against his, making him hungry for more. Jaskier watching, controlling, not letting him take what he wants, not yet.

“I’d wait until you’re desperate, until you’re begging, even, then let her speed up, get her to ride you fast and hard.”

It’s like Jaskier knows just what he likes, and he carefully avoids thinking about why that is. Instead, he jerks himself faster, thinking of the feel of a woman’s wet heat enveloping him.

“We’d make it a game,” Jaskier says, voice low. “You aren’t allowed to come until you please her.”

That makes something hot flash inside him, the thrill of a challenge, the distant imagining of how he might be punished if he fails.

“You’d have to work for it. Keep fucking her, going so deep inside. But I’d see if you were struggling. I know what you look like when you’re about to come.” That makes red hot embarrassment shoot through Geralt, twined with something else more difficult to ascertain. 

“I’d help you out,” Jaskier continues, magnanimous as ever. “I’d bring my hand around and rub her clit while you fuck her, make sure she feels good, get her right on the edge of coming.”

Geralt can hear her gasps, see the way her head would roll back in pleasure, hear the way Jaskier would be right there, softly whispering instructions and encouragements.

“When she gets close she’d let her mouth fall open, and she’d moan for you, tell you to give it to her hard now, demand that you take her over that edge.”

His hips jerk upwards, pushing his cock up into his fist like he’s fucking her in earnest, chasing what he and she and Jaskier all want.

“When she comes,” Jaskier says, voice dripping, “she’d clench around you, so tight, like a vice around your cock, and she’d make the sweetest sounds for you.”

Geralt’s fingers squeeze his cock harder, almost painfully tight, but he keeps going, the tinge of pain blossoming into heady pleasure.

“She wouldn’t stop though. She‘d tell you to keep going, keep taking her, that she’s going to ride you until you come inside of her.”

Fuck, _fuck_ , he was close now, tensions building throughout his body, the muscles of his legs squeezing in anticipation.

“And then I’d decide. I’d decide when you’re allowed to come. I’d wait until you were aching for it, struggling to hold back, until your fingers were gripping the bed sheets and your jaw was clenched. And then I’d tell you _‘Now. You can come now.’_ And I’d watch your face as you come inside her.”

Whatever magic Jaskier has in his voice clearly works, because all it takes is that command and Geralt is coming, that winding taught sensation snapping away to leave a warm, hazy fuzz of pleasure as he spills over his hand. He breathes, lets his heartbeat slow, lets himself enjoy the fog of contentment for a minute.

He finally looks over at Jaskier, who is painted orange and gold in the soft light of the fire. The scent of arousal is coming off him in waves, but he isn’t making any moves to get himself off. Curious.

Geralt lazily cleans himself up, and figures he can get away with asking about that under the guise of their earlier discussion. “And what about you?” he asks, voice a little husky. “What do you get out of this scenario?”

Jaskier smiles mischievously, his eyes sparkling in the darkness. “Maybe I like watching,” he says. A moment’s pause. “Or maybe I’m just happy to know you’re satisfied.”

“Hmm.” Geralt does feel satisfied, actually, the tension of the day finally released and his body soft and content. 

The last thing he thinks as he drifts off to a contented sleep is that it’s funny how Jaskier always seems to know just what he needs.


	13. accidental rim jobs

Geralt should have known that it would only be a matter of time before he ended up back at a brothel, sharing a girl with Jaskier once again.

In truth, they could have afforded a girl each this time, but sharing had been fun last time and he’d casually suggested the idea a while back – more as a joke than anything else – and Jaskier had enthusiastically agreed.

So here they are. Tonight they’re with a cheerful, chubby lady named Florence, who is doing sterling work sucking Jaskier’s cock while Geralt watches.

She pulls back for a moment. “You want fingers as well, darling?” she asks. Jaskier nods fervently and she grins, a knowing look on her face.

She turns to Geralt. “Suck these for me, will you?” she asks, proffering two fingers at him. He isn’t sure exactly why but he takes them into his mouth obediently, running his tongue over each in turn. “That’s it, get them nice and wet for me.”

Apparently satisfied, she removes her fingers and turns to Jaskier.

Geralt’s face feels hot as he watches her go back to sucking Jaskier’s cock, while also running her fingers down behind his balls and yet further back. When she slips a finger inside him, Jaskier bucks and moans.

Jaskier likes that, it seems. He _really_ likes that. That’s, well. That’s something new he’s learnt about his friend.

Geralt is settling back to enjoy the view when Jaskier leans down to gently touch her wrist with his hand.

“I have request,” he says, chewing his lip. “Could you use your mouth?” 

Florence raises an eyebrow. “I thought that’s what I was doing.”

Jaskier blushes, a pretty dusting of pink spreading over his cheeks. “No, I mean, could you use your mouth on my ass?”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Florence says, patting him on the leg. “We’ve got some rules here, and I don’t do that.”

Jaskier looks a touch disappointed, but smiles nonetheless. “Of course. Not a problem -”

“I’ll do it.” Geralt is a little shocked that just came out of his mouth. But Jaskier has been looking forward to this, and they’d been talking about it and planning it out for days. It would be a shame if he didn’t get the full experience he’d been hoping for.

Florence and Jaskier both turn to stare at him, and Florence’s eyebrows shoot toward her hairline.

“If that would be okay with Jaskier,” he corrects, suddenly feeling very foolish.

Jaskier’s blush is rapidly crawling down his neck and toward his chest. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, quickly. “I mean. Sure. If you don’t mind.”

Right. Good. A challenge. A physical task. Geralt is good at those.

His limited and bumbling experiences with Eskel decades ago when they were teenagers, however, did not stretch to such acts, and none of the women he’s been with since have ever requested it. He is in need of some guidance.

Just as well they have a professional on hand.

“Will you tell me what to do?” he asks Florence, who has regained her composure. She stands, smiling indulgently, and cups his cheek.

“Sure I will, darling. Let’s start by getting your friend here comfortable.”

She gets Jaskier to roll onto his front, and Geralt’s eyes flick over the smooth planes of his back, the gentle swell of his ass, the thick muscles of his thighs. The view is… not unpleasant, he has to admit. Jaskier clearly takes care of himself.

“Good,” Florence says. “Now you spread his legs.”

Geralt tentatively puts one hand on each of Jaskier’s thighs and pushes, and Jaskier’s legs fall open invitingly. He can’t resist running a hand over the soft curve of his ass, squeezing the muscle. Jaskier makes a shaky little noise when he does. Interesting.

“There we go. Now use your hands to spread his cheeks, nice and gentle. That’s it.”

Jaskier is warm and malleable under his hands as he maneuvers him.

“You like that view, hmm?” she asks, and Geralt realises he must have been staring. He starts to stammer an excuse, but she lays a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, you don’t have answer that. Now get your tongue on him. Nice and slow to start with. Lick one big stripe, going up.”

That’s simple enough, isn’t it? He can do that. Summoning his courage, he leans in and runs his tongue from Jaskier’s balls all the way up the crack of his ass. As he does, Jaskier swears colourfully and grinds his hips into the bed. A success, it seems.

“Good,” Florence says. “Now do that again, a few more times.”

He does, and with each time his confidence grows. He can smell Jaskier intensely, rich and musky, and he can feel the way he quivers under his tongue. It’s a heady combination.

Florence moves to brush a strand of hair out of Jaskier’s face. “You good there, sweetie?” she asks, and Jaskier makes a _mmmmm_ noise.

“Okay. Now you,” she directs Geralt, “keep going, but just on his hole now.”

He can do that too, and the more he does, the more Jaskier bucks under him, until he has to hold his hips in place with his hands. That seems to make Jaskier even wilder, his moans becoming louder, and that’s not unpleasant.

“He’s ready,” Florence decides. “You can push your tongue inside a little bit, see if he likes that.”

He tries it, and Jaskier likes it _a lot_. It’s a strange kind of pressure around his tongue, and there’s a faint taste of something earthy, but it is, all in all, worth it to see Jaskier enjoying himself.

Jaskier deserves that. He deserves to feel good. And if Florence can’t provide this particular service, then he gladly will.

“You seem to have the hang of it,” Florence says, and she sounds a little bit proud. “Just keep it up then. You’ll know when to stop.” She wanders off to brush out her curly hair and leaves them to it.

Alright, Geralt thinks. Time to get to work.

He laps into Jaskier with a focused determination, and it comes more naturally to him than he would have imagined. Jaskier is so very vocal, and he quickly picks up how he likes it, when he should go fast, when he should slow. 

It takes remarkably little time, in fact, or maybe it only feels that way, before Jaskier is grinding down into the bed and the cadence and volume of his cries increases in a desperate crescendo.

Geralt has an idea, a cunning plan, and he releases one of Jaskier’s hips to free his hand. Jaskier had liked this when Florence had done it, so perhaps…

He brings one finger up to tease at Jaskier’s hole, and he’s so slick with spit that it slips inside easily. Jaskier makes a husky noise and Geralt goes back to licking and sucking around his finger, mouthing at Jaskier’s rim until Jaskier is humping the mattress, desperate, and Geralt lets his hips rise enough that he sees the moment Jaskier comes, spurting all over the bed beneath him, gulping in huge breaths of air and clawing at the pillows.

Geralt sits back on his heels and smiles, satisfied at his accomplishment.

Jaskier eventually rolls over, though it looks like it costs him some effort, and gives Geralt a very soft smile. “C’mere,” he says, reaching for Geralt’s wrist, and Geralt lets himself be pulled on top of him so they’re chest to chest, and he’s suddenly aware of his hard dick pushing against Jaskier’s hip. This close, he can see the flecks in Jaskier’s eyes.

“That was very nice,” Jaskier says, and kisses him.

And that’s a bit unexpected, but maybe Jaskier likes the taste of himself on someone else’s tongue. Some people are into that. So he charitably allows Jaskier to kiss him, parting his lips and exploring Jaskier’s mouth with his tongue.

And if, while they’re kissing, Geralt finds his hips working, grinding his dick against the firm muscles of Jaskier’s leg, that’s just a natural response to their current situation. And if, while he moves, Jaskier grabs his ass and encourages him to rut against him, that’s only because Jaskier is a generous and understanding person that way. And if, when Geralt comes, body rocking and light blazing behind his eyes as he spills over Jaskier’s thigh, there’s a name in his mouth which feels suspiciously like ‘Jaskier’, that’s simply because he’s right there in front of him, and the mind does these things sometimes.

They lie there, pressed together and breathing the same air for a time, until Geralt becomes unpleasantly aware of the sticky seed covering both of them. Somewhat reluctantly, because that position had been comfortable other than the stickiness, he rolls off Jaskier and flops on his back.

The stillness of the moment is broken when Florence tosses a damp cloth at Geralt which hits him square in the face. “Excellent work,” she says, winking at him. “You’ve got a future in that.”

Geralt ducks his head, unusually bashful. But he can’t let that remark stand uncorrected, because really, she ought to know that this was very much a one time thing, and he’s about to tell her so -

She holds up a hand to stop him. “Don’t strain yourself. Now clean up yourself and your _friend_ there and let me get back to work on my next customer, hmm?”

Jaskier is still a little loopy, so he calmly lets Geralt clean him and help him on with his clothes. As they’re heading out the door, Geralt hands over a bag of coin to Florence who tucks it away with a smile. 

“Thank you,” he says, politely. “That was a very… informative experience.”

“If only all my customers were so agreeable,” she says, and kisses him on the cheek. “And you look after him, you hear me?” She nods at Jaskier.

“Of course I will,” Geralt says, entirely serious. “He’s my friend, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is getting there. So slowly! But he's getting there. Please be patient with him, as he and Jaskier only have the one brain cell that they share and Jaskier has been hogging it lately.
> 
> Thank you again for all the fun comments - I love seeing all your theories on who knows what and how things will work out between them!


	14. chamomile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience while I worked on this new chapter!  
> And a big thank you to witchertrashbag for helping me out when I was struggling <3

The most disgusting parts of a witcher’s work were almost – _almost_ – worth it for the simple pleasure of taking a bath afterwards. A contract on a zeugl, however, pushed even Geralt’s patience to its limits. With the job completed he’d arrived back at the inn exhausted, covered in fifth, and stinking to an unbelievable degree.

Jaskier had taken one look at him, led him out to the yard, and thrown buckets of cold water over him until the worst of the filth was washed away. He would have grumbled about that, but Jaskier had also ordered a hot bath sent to their room and prepared his lavender soap that Geralt secretly loves, so he decided to be magnanimous. 

Now, he lets the warm bath water wash over him, bleeding away the stress and disgust of the day.

Jaskier sits behind him, rinsing out his hair with careful movements. The scent of lavender spikes as Jaskier lathers the soap between his hands and begins to rub it into Geralt’s scalp. His fingers are strong and sure, digging in with just the right pressure.

Having spent the day being spat at and wading through hip-deep filth, it feels sinfully good to be touched with care and attention. Jaskier digs a thumb into a spot at the base of his skull and Geralt moans without meaning to. Jaskier only hums, and does it again.

He can’t deny he’s always enjoyed having his hair played with, and if he feels his cock filling out as Jaskier massages his scalp it’s only because it’s been too long since he’s allowed anyone to take care of him, and because there’s something about being submerged in water which makes his body open to suggestion.

Jaskier is patient as ever, chatting away as he rinses Geralt’s hair and moves on to soaping his shoulders, his back, his arms, his legs. Geralt could technically do that for himself, he supposes, but Jaskier seems to be enjoying himself and it would be rude to interrupt.

As Jaskier runs a hand up the inside of Geralt’s thigh, his knuckles brush tantalisingly lightly, accidentally, against his cock. Geralt’s hands squeeze hard against the rim of the tub, but his breathing remains even. Jaskier raises his eyebrow in a tiny quirk but says nothing, and Geralt doesn’t either. Best not to draw attention to it.

Jaskier keeps calmly running soap along his leg, and then the back of his hand brushes past Geralt’s cock again, and then _again_ , and Geralt can’t suppress a moan. He’s getting harder by the minute and there’s no way Jaskier hasn’t noticed.

He wants… He wants to run. He wants Jaskier to keep his damn hands to himself. He wants Jaskier to touch him more, to touch him all over, to take his cock into his familiar, calloused hands and…

“You seem tense,” Jaskier says, voice low.

 _Of course I’m tense, you fucking prick_ , he thinks but doesn’t say, _you keep touching my cock and I think I might like it._

“Come on, let me see to that shoulder.”

A ghoul had sliced into his shoulder last week, and it was healed now but Geralt decides to indulge Jaskier all the same. He’ll only worry otherwise. He lets Jaskier guide him out of the bath, and Jaskier pointedly doesn’t mention the fact he’s half hard. Somehow that only makes it more mortifying.

He lets Jaskier lie him face down on the bed, a towel draped over his lower half for modesty. Not that modesty seems to be a concern to Jaskier, who fetches his oils and makes himself comfortable sitting on the backs of Geralt’s thighs.

The weight of Jaskier on top of him is, surprisingly, not unpleasant, and he tries to unwind as Jaskier works oil into his hands and gently prods at his shoulder, checking the edges of the scar with careful fingers.

Still, it feels wrong, greedy even, to enjoy the way Jaskier touches him. Being the subject of such close attention makes him squirm, and he’s embarrassingly aware of his hard cock beneath him. His heart rate picks up in the beginnings of panic, and his muscles are tensing up…

“Breathe for me,” Jaskier says, fingers barely grazing him. “Just breathe.”

He can do that. He takes one shaky breath, and then another, Jaskier softly stroking his back.

“Good,” Jaskier hums, and the warmth of that sends a shiver down Geralt’s spine.

The scent of chamomile fills the air as Jaskier begins to rub at his shoulder, sweeping outward in firm strokes that dig into the muscles and release knots he hadn’t realised were there. Jaskier has talented hands, everyone knows this, but Geralt appreciates it afresh whenever Jaskier does this for him.

Geralt feels himself relax inch by inch as Jaskier works across his back, down each arm, along his spine, the warm feeling of relaxation punctuated by the occasional twist of pleasure-pain when he digs in deep and releases a knot.

Jaskier takes his time, touching and smoothing over each section of skin, and yet all too soon he’s reached the base of Geralt’s spine and he’s lifting his hands away.

Geralt manages to bite down on a whine, but only just.

“Do you want me to keep going?” Jaskier asks, and all Geralt can think is that he doesn’t want this to end, he selfishly wants as much as Jaskier will give him.

“Yes,” he rasps, voice shaky, and he thinks Jaskier’s hummed response sounds content.

Jaskier pushes the towel away and begins working up his legs, starting at the soles of his feet and moving up in careful strokes. It’s a rare thing for anyone to touch Geralt this much, and his dick twitches beneath him, confusing the touch of a friend for that of a lover. Jaskier hardly seemed shocked by his body’s reactions at this point though, so he lets himself slip into a warm, comfortable bubble of sensation, comfort and satisfaction with a low thrum of arousal far in the background.

Jaskier’s thumbs press into the inside of his thighs and Geralt’s hips dig into the mattress without him meaning them to. Heat creeps up the back of his neck as he realises what he’s doing.

“Mmm.” Jaskier doesn’t sound displeased, though. He runs his hands along the crease between Geralt’s thighs and ass, fingers kneading at muscles which are tight and sore from weeks of riding Roach.

It’s deliciously good, actually, even if it is a little close for comfort. Jaskier’s hands find every knot and pressure point, digging down hard into the meat of his ass, and Geralt gives himself over to it.

Soon, too soon, Jaskier’s hands slow and move away, and when they lift off completely Geralt lets out a little moan that he can’t contain.

He feels the air behind him still as Jaskier freezes, seemingly deep in consideration.

“Shall I keep going?” Jaskier asks, and his voice is husky, almost uncertain, like he doesn’t know how Geralt is going to react.

Geralt has no compunctions now though, too wrapped up in the feeling of Jaskier’s hands on his skin, craving more, not caring for propriety. “Yes,” he gasps, and mercifully, Jaskier’s hands are back on his skin immediately.

Jaskier drips more oil on his hands, and the sweet, floral odor of chamomile fills Geralt’s senses, lulling him further into that comfortable, pliant state. He trusts Jaskier. He trusts him to make him feel good. It’s nice to cede control for a while, to let someone else decide what he’ll do and how he’ll be touched. The only requirement is for him to lie there and do as Jaskier tells him, and he’s confident he can do that.

“Spread your legs for me,” Jaskier says, one oiled hand on each thigh, and Geralt does so gladly. There’s a twinge at the back of his mind at the thought of how exposed he is, but that’s quashed as soon as Jaskier’s hands are back at his ass, squeezing and massaging.

Jaskier runs an oiled finger along the crack of his ass and he shudders all over, acutely sensitive to each motion. Jaskier does it again, other hand holding Geralt’s hip in a way that’s more comforting than he’d be willing to admit.

He teases a finger around Geralt’s rim and gods, Geralt has no idea what’s gotten into him but he wants this, wants more, wants Jaskier to keep doing whatever he’s doing because it’s sending sparkles across his skin and there’s a restless hunger building up inside him.

When Jaskier slides a finger inside him he clenches up at first, unused to the sensation. But Jaskier runs a hand down his side, muttering kind words in a soft voice, and Geralt relaxes into the sensation.

“Good boy,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt _glows_.

Jaskier fingers him slowly, sliding one finger in and out before adding a second, and the stretch feels strange but not unpleasant.

And then Jaskier cocks his fingers and brushes against something deep inside him and sparks shoot through his body like lightning, and he’s grinding down into the mattress and gasping for air.

“Feels good, hmm?”

Geralt can’t answer, can barely focus, but he knows he wants more of that so he nods his head against the rough pillow, hoping Jaskier will get it.

Jaskier understands, like he always does, and he moves his fingers with more force, rubbing up against that spot until Geralt is boneless and breathless, caught on his fingers like a fish on a hook.

His sense of time is stretched like molasses but Geralt is dimly aware that it only takes an embarrassingly short few minutes before he’s keening and writhing under Jaskier’s careful attentions, heart beating faster and faster and breath coming shorter.

There’s a tightly coiled heat twisting low in his belly, blood thundering in his ears, the smell and chamomile and soapy bathwater and _Jaskier_ building in his nostrils.

And then Jaskier leans in close to his back, fingers deep inside him, and his voice is soft in Geralt’s ear as he says, “That’s it. I’ve got you.” And Geralt lets himself fall, lets himself float, certain that Jaskier will catch him, and he gives himself over to the waves of pleasure that are cresting inside him.

He comes with a soft gasp, shuddering as all the tension and anger and heat he’d been carrying flows out of him in time with the gentle motions of Jaskier’s fingers, and he feels stretched and exposed but somehow light and free.

“There you go,” Jaskier says, withdrawing his fingers and patting Geralt with his other hand.

Geralt is too hazy to speak. But he lets Jaskier roll him over and clean him off. He has the sudden urge to pull Jaskier onto the bed with him and hold him close, but he’s fairly certain that’s not what this was about so he fists his hands in the sheets instead.

Jaskier sits beside him and runs a hand up his leg, and even now his touch leaves goosebumps up Geralt’s skin.

“You’re more comfortable giving pleasure than receiving it, aren’t you?” Jaskier’s voice is curious, not judgemental.

He supposes he probably is. There’s something functional about pleasing someone else: a challenge, a goal, a requirement that he can meet. Having someone lavish pleasure on him isn’t like that. He’s supposed to, what, just lie there while Jaskier works to make him feel good? It seems hedonistic, selfish even, like something he’s not deserving of. Witchers are built to be efficient tools, not something worthy of care or pleasure.

He hums. But he feels like maybe Jaskier understands without him having to say anything.

“You are allowed to want things.“ Jaskier is so very gentle. "It’s not wrong to feel good. You deserve that.”

Something twists under his rib cage, some ugly mix of anger and shame, because that’s not right, it’s not like that for him, and he doesn’t know how to explain that to Jaskier -

Jaskier lays a soft hand on his thigh. "It’s okay,” he says, and Geralt lets himself believe that maybe it is. “Just think about it, yeah?”

“Hmm.”

If he allows himself to consider… allows himself to imagine a life where he’s deserving of care… He wonders what that might look like. What he could be if he was worthy of something more.

And then his mind snaps back to the here and now, because such dreams are not meant for men like him.

Jaskier sighs, like he knows exactly what’s going through his head. “You’ll get there,” he says, and there’s no pity in it, only hope.

Geralt wishes he could share his conviction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! The brain cell was working extra hard this week. Geralt is finally starting to realise that he has, perhaps, maybe, possibly caught some kind of feelings. 
> 
> But will he be able to actually acknowledge that out loud??? We shall have to wait and see...


	15. geralt overhears jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little extra bonus chapter for today before we move on to the big finale.
> 
> Thank you again for all the lovely comments! I l really enjoy reading them and they provide wonderful inspiration for future chapters.

For all the advantages that witcher mutations have in a fight, there are times when Geralt wishes he could turn down the din of the outside world. Like when villagers jeer at him and their curses ring loud in his ears, or when the stench of bodies packed tight into a tavern overwhelms him, or when his sleep is interrupted by the scurrying of an animal half a mile away.

Or, on nights like tonight, when they’ve stopped at an inn and Jaskier has sought out company, and Geralt can hear every damned rustle and moan, even from another room.

He turns over in his bed, unreasonably irritable, pressing a rank pillow over his ears to try and block out the sounds coming from Jaskier’s room next door, not that it helps.

He can hear Jaskier’s low, teasing voice, and the gruff responses of the sturdy blacksmith he’d spotted in the bar earlier in the evening, and he can hear the creak of the old wooden bed. Visions of exactly what is going on in that room swirl behind his eyelids, and he steadfastly ignores the way his dick is traitorously rising.

It’s not as if he has a problem with Jaskier bedding men in principle. Given Geralt’s own history, that would be rather hypocritical, although their situations are clearly different. Jaskier is free and easy with his love, unconstrained by norms and the assumption of others. Geralt is a creature of quiet desperation, and when you have been rejected for who you are all your life, you take whatever comfort you can find from anyone willing to offer it.

And It’s not as if this is the first time Geralt is overhearing one of Jaskier’s conquests, much as he’d rather not listen to the women Jaskier usually beds giggling and gasping either.

But this feels different, in a way Geralt can’t explain or justify. Seeing Jaskier with women is uncomfortable, in the way that seeing any excessive display of affection is uncomfortable, but seeing Jaskier with a man makes something ripe and furious race under his skin, something ugly and mean, and Geralt doesn’t understand where that comes from.

He only knows that he’s too hot and his heart rate is climbing and he wants to gnash his teeth and bite down into something soft and yielding. He wants to walk out into the forest and never look back. He wants to kick open the door to the room next door and throw the damned blacksmith out the window.

He hears the noises next door building in volume and intensity, Jaskier’s moans getting more obscene, and as much as he wishes he could think of literally anything else he can’t stop picturing Jaskier naked and blissful, how the blacksmith might be pleasuring him to induce those noises, what positions they’re in and how Jaskier looks when he throws his head back and groans, rough and throaty.

The noises build to a crescendo, the wet slapping of flesh on flesh ringing through the wall, overlaid with the blacksmith grunting like an animal. But one sound holds Geralt’s attention like no other: Jaskier’s breath, coming faster and faster now, heavier and heavier, and Geralt can’t deny the fact he knows what that means, that he knows exactly what Jaskier sounds like when he’s on the edge of orgasm.

And then Jaskier’s breath hitches in a moment of frozen stillness, and in a voice so quiet it would be impossible for anyone but him to pick up on, he gives a tiny, contented sigh as he breathes a single word, “ _Geralt.”  
_

What the _fuck_.

Geralt sits bolt upright in bed, hard as iron and still unaccountably furious, and he knows he didn’t mishear that. But that would mean that Jaskier was… that Jaskier was thinking… while he was…

Geralt’s head swims, and in a great rush the frustration and irritation crystalise into a startling clarity: He knows why he’s angry, and it’s not because he has a problem with Jaskier sleeping with men. It’s because he has a problem with Jaskier sleeping with _someone else_.

And that would mean… that he… that he feels…

_Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very proud of Geralt! He's working his one brain cell super hard.


	16. morning wood

Geralt thinks he might be losing his mind.

He’s distracted, and short-tempered, even more so than usual. Every time he looks at Jaskier his heart rate rockets and his palms start sweating.

He can’t stop _noticing_ Jaskier, everything he does, the way he stands, the way he moves, the way he nibbles his bottom lip when he’s thinking. He can’t _focus_ , and if he can’t get this under control he’s going to get one or both of them killed.

His first thought is magic. Some kind of spell, maybe. But his medallion is still against his chest, and when he surreptitiously stops by a herbalist’s shop in a nearby town, the woman there finds no trace of a spell or curse on him.

Perhaps, he thinks, the problem is Jaskier. He’s wondered why Jaskier doesn’t seem to age, and how he has the energy to traipse across the continent after him. Perhaps Jaskier is hiding a secret. Perhaps he’s not as human as he seems.

Jaskier could be a siren. That would explain how he can enchant a crowd with a simple song, as Geralt has seen him do a hundred times, and how he could have enchanted Geralt as well. But when Geralt hands him his silver sword, ostensibly to hold while he cleans out their packs, Jaskier’s skin doesn’t smoke or burn. Instead, he turns the sword over in his hands, inspecting the sleek blade and the tightly bound leather of the grip. He runs a thumb over the edge to check its sharpness and nicks himself, clumsy as ever. Before Geralt can berate him, he brings his thumb up to his mouth, and then Geralt is distracted all over again by the way Jaskier sucks the digit between his plump lips, and that’s just not fair.

Maybe Jaskier is an incubus. That would make sense, given his fondness for the ladies and his obvious good looks. But if he’s been filing down his horns all this time, he’s done an awfully good job of it. Geralt finds an excuse to run a hand through Jaskier’s hair, and he doesn’t feel any bumps beneath his fingers. But Jaskier does lean into his touch, smiling softly, and Geralt’s heart flutters in a most unhelpful way.

.

Just because Geralt is dealing with an unwelcome onslaught of feelings, that doesn’t mean he has to make it Jaskier’s problem. He does his best to maintain the usual tone of their interactions: gruff and to the point. Businesslike. Practical.

He thinks he’s doing rather well at that. At least until they stop at a tavern and Jaskier performs for the locals, catching the eye of a pretty girl.

Geralt waits for Jaskier to head to the bar and he does, perhaps, talk a little louder than is strictly necessary about the horrible monsters which stalk anyone close to a witcher. And he does, perhaps, feel a mean twist of satisfaction when the pretty girl’s face pales and she runs from the tavern.

He feels a little bit guilty when Jaskier returns to find her gone, but Jaskier looks tired anyway and readily takes him up on the suggestion that they retire for the night, so he can’t have been that disappointed after all.

But when Geralt returns from washing and walks into their room he stops dead, feet frozen on the threshold. Because Jaskier is there, lounging on the bed. And he’s wearing one of Geralt’s shirts _and nothing else_. The black shirt hangs off his frame in a manner that’s somehow more obscene than if he’d just been naked.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Geralt manages to growl, and his voice only cracks a little bit.

“My clothes all need washing.” Jaskier shrugs, and the collar of the shirt slides down to reveal more of the smooth planes of his shoulder and the dark hair dusting his chest. Geralt can’t stop staring. “I borrowed this from your pack. I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

Geralt concentrates on getting his legs to work and takes a few steps toward the bed. Up close, it’s even worse. Jaskier smells like Geralt. No, he smells like he’s _Geralt’s_. _  
_

_His_ bard in _his_ shirt in _his_ bed.

Something primal and possessive thrums through him, and he can’t tear his eyes away from how the black fabric highlights the pale skin of Jaskier’s throat, the way the hem of the shirt floats around the meat of his thighs. Blood pounds in his ears.

“Are you coming to bed then?” Jaskier asks, an impish smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Bed. Right. For sleeping. That’s what they’re supposed to be doing.

Stiffly, keeping his eyes firmly averted, he manages to climb into bed and resist the urge to tear the shirt off Jaskier and do…. something unwise. He curses his luck that the bed is so small, with barely enough room to keep a decent amount of space between them.

He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. As long as he doesn’t turn his head and look at Jaskier, everything will be fine.

Jaskier fusses and rearranges himself several times, energetic as ever, but Geralt steadfastly ignores him and soon enough he’s rolled over onto his side, back to Geralt, and fallen asleep.

Geralt allows his eyes to flick over Jaskier’s sleeping form then, and it still strikes him as astonishing that anyone could feel safe and trusting enough to sleep next to a witcher. But there Jaskier is, content to the point of naivety, vulnerable and fearless.

In sleep, Jaskier’s face softens and he looks even younger than usual, his typically animated features relaxed into something graceful and delicate. He sleeps soundly, unconcerned by the voices from the bar downstairs or the rustle of the nearby trees in the wind.

Geralt is fidgety and on edge, every sound blaring into his consciousness. He’s exquisitely aware of the feel of the rough cotton sheet beneath him, the warmth pouring off Jaskier, the gentle rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest, the comparatively furious rhythm of Jaskier’s heartbeat.

It takes him many, many hours, but eventually he sleeps.

.

Geralt wakes the next morning warm and comfortable, with a low thrum of pleasure spreading throughout his body. Something feels good, really good, and as he rolls his hips the pleasure spikes, heady and potent, waves of satisfaction running through him like the ocean lapping at a sandy beach.

He nuzzles into something soft and familiar, a soothing, spicy scent washing over him, a distant thrill of mounting gratification building inside him. Whatever this is, he’s greedy for more of it.

It takes a few minutes until he wakes up fully and realises that he’s shifted in the night: His face is nestled into Jaskier’s hair, his arm is around Jaskier’s waist, his leg is thrown over Jaskier’s hip, and his dick is rock hard and grinding up against Jaskier’s arse.

_Fuck_. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He stills, trying to figure out how the hell he’s going to extract himself from this situation without making it any more embarrassing than it already is. He’s planning his exit strategy, trying to untangle their limbs, trying to keep his breath low and steady so as not to betray his roiling emotions, and then Jaskier’s hand curls around his and squeezes.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier says, voice thick with sleep, face still buried in the pillow.

And that’s. Gods. That’s exactly what he wants to hear, on one level, and some kind of tantalising torment on another. Because Jaskier surely can’t mean that, he can’t seriously want some lust-addled witcher rutting up against him. Who would want that?

Jaskier continues to defy his expectations, though, and rucks up his shirt to his waist to expose his bare ass, and Geralt can’t stop the little gasp that escapes his throat at that.

“C’mon,” Jaskier says, voice still thick but undeniably awake now, and Geralt is weak because before he can get a hold of himself he’s shoving his own shorts down and rubbing up against the soft swell of Jaskier’s ass, warm and smooth and deliriously good.

His cock slides between Jaskier’s thighs and Jaskier _squeezes_ , and he’s dizzy with it for a minute, the heat and the scent of Jaskier and the strong grip of muscles around his cock. He fucks between Jaskier’s legs with abandon, and judging by the way Jaskier reaches down and furiously jerks himself off he’s enjoying it plenty too.

If Geralt cranes his neck he can just see the tip of his cock sliding between Jaskier’s legs, periodically bumping up against his balls or rubbing against Jaskier’s hand where he’s working himself.

He grabs onto Jaskier’s hips and holds on tight, tight enough that he’s going to leave bruises if he’s not careful, and then he’s picturing Jaskier walking around for days with impressions on his skin in the exact shape of Geralt’s spread fingers, marked and owned. That’s really all it takes to push him over the edge, and the next thing he knows he’s coming all over Jaskier’s ass and thighs with a low moan.

He nestles closer, making an utter mess of both of them but he doesn’t care, he just wants to feel Jaskier in his arms and smell that maddening scent that’s been hovering around him for days. They’re so close that he can feel Jaskier’s approaching orgasm, feel the way his muscles clench and his toes curl, and feel the moment he lets go and comes with a breathy sound over his hand and the bed and Geralt’s shirt.

Geralt winces. He’s going to have to burn that shirt, because it’s now covered in both of their seed and he’ll never be able to look at it again without thinking of this morning and this moment, and that’s not the kind of reminder he needs.

They lie there for a time, bodies intertwined, just breathing together. Soon Geralt knows he’ll have to push himself up and clean himself off and go back to pretending that this… whatever it is between them… is enough for him, that he’s happy, that he‘s getting what he wants.

His heart aches at the thought of slipping back into their routine of bickering or casual friendship, interspersed with moments of unspoken lust. Not that he doesn’t want that, he certainly does, but he longs for something _more_. He doesn’t know how to name it, but he knows what he wants is too much for someone like him to ask for.

Still, for now, he lets himself inhale Jaskier’s scent and feel Jaskier’s solid weight in his arms, and he lets himself indulge in the fantasy of what life might look like if this were something he could actually have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the total chapter count for this just keeps creeping up, huh?
> 
> What can I say, I have very little self restraint (even less than Geralt, apparently).


	17. heat of the moment

Geralt’s blood sings with the thrill of combat.

The Tawny Owl and the Thunderbolt potions he took before the battle are thrumming through his system, every synapse sparking and his reactions heightened beyond anything human.

He is the perfect killing machine, poised to unleash destruction. The creatures fall before him as he methodically slashes through each one with his silver sword.

He pauses to glance to his side, checking Jaskier is still safely hidden behind a tree. He hates letting Jaskier see him this way, black-eyed and monstrous, but he takes his encouraging smile as fortification all the same.

The fight is as these thing always are – messy, arduous, and necessary. He’s cleared out most of the drowners already, first picking off the lone dangerous water hag, then destroying the nest, and now he takes on the few remaining stragglers one by one.

He hears a scratching noise behind him but ignores it, assuming it’s just Jaskier scuttling around for a better look. A moment too late he realises his mistake as he smells the foul stench of one of the creatures rearing up behind him, and he spins with his blade at the ready but he’s too slow.

He wheels in time to see Jaskier dart forward, the dagger Geralt had given him for emergency defense clutched in one hand, then Jaskier throws himself bodily at the drowner and there’s a scuffle of limbs and teeth and metal.

The drowner goes down, but as it does Geralt catches sight of a vision from his reoccurring nightmares: Jaskier, staggering, a dazed expression on his face, blood splattered across his chest in an ugly arc.

“Jaskier!” He barely recognises the sound of his own voice, scratchy and desperate. His feet move him across the clearing with inhuman speed and he has Jaskier in his arms, running hands over his body and searching for the injury.

If he’s been cut deeply, if it’s infected, if he’s been exposed to something, he is so very fragile, and so human. He can’t shrug this off the way Geralt can, and Geralt should have known better, he should never have put Jaskier in harm’s way, it was so selfish of him -

“It’s okay.” Jaskier’s voice penetrates through the thick fog of worry. “I’m okay, Geralt, it’s not my blood. I’m fine.”

He pulls back to look in Jaskier’s eyes, and they’re wide with shock but clear and lucid. He runs his hands through his hair and down his chest, and it true that he can’t feel any injuries. He wipes a smear of blood off Jaskier’s cheek with his thumb.

“We’re safe,” Jaskier says, wrapping a hand very gently around Geralt’s wrist. His voice is like music, harmonious but discordant to the stench of battle around them. “We’re okay.”

Geralt isn’t even thinking, running purely on instinct. His blood is hot and his body is ringing with the adrenaline of battle. It’s okay, he tells himself, it’s okay, no one is hurt, no one is dying.

And then he does something stupid.

One moment he’s bracing himself against a surge of relief and annoyance and fear and affection at seeing Jaskier unharmed, and the next his hands are cupping Jaskier’s face and he’s pulling him close and kissing him, deep and hot.

Jaskier stiffens in surprise, but just for a second. Then his arms go around Geralt’s waist and his lips part and Geralt can taste him, herbal and spicy and familiar.

Geralt licks into his mouth, chasing more of that taste, and Jaskier allows him, letting out a tiny _mpgh_ noise when Geralt’s hands slide up into his hair.

Their bodies mould together and for a few glorious moments there’s nothing but _this_ and _here_ and _now_. And it feels right, somehow. Geralt is greedy for it, and he _wants_.

And then his foot crunches on something and he realises he all in a rush that he’s standing in a pile of drowner corpses, guts everywhere, and he’s gripping onto Jaskier so tightly it must be painful, and the potions are still whipping through his body. He can only imagine how hideous he looks, eyes blown black and veins of toxicity written across his face.

He releases Jaskier and steps back, and Jaskier’s eyes fly open. He doesn’t look horrified, but it can only be a matter of time until it dawns on him how repulsive everything about this situation is.

Geralt can’t bear to watch Jaskier’s fond expression inevitably morph into disgust. He’s too selfish for that. Even though he knows he deserves it, for pushing himself on Jaskier when he’s clearly not wanted, he can’t stay here and see a look of dawning horror blanketing Jaskier’s features.

So he does what he always does when he’s overwhelmed – he runs. He turns his back on Jaskier, not fast enough to miss the expression of sadness and disappointment settle on his face, and he flees into the forest without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut this time :O a shocking departure :O
> 
> Instead have some FEELINGS


	18. geralt borrows the brain cell

“This doesn’t usually happen to me.” Geralt doesn’t blush, but he does feel heat prickling up the back of his neck. “Honestly.”

“It’s alright, darling,” the prostitute, Bianca, says kindly. “It happens to a lot of men. Have you been under any stress lately? That’ll do it.”

Geralt shoves his uselessly softening cock back into his trousers and sits down heavily on the bed. Stress was not something that witchers were allowed to feel. Though there was perhaps something specific bothering him.

“It’s not the same without Jaskier here,” he says with a sigh. “He’s usually around when I -” he gestures illustratively, “- you know.”

“Jaskier? Who’s that?”

“He’s my…” Geralt considers what he and Jaskier are to each other. What they could be. How to put it into words. “… bard.”

“And you and your… bard, you’re companions, are you?”

They are, Geralt supposes. At some point in however long they’d been travelling together, Jaskier had become as essential to him as his silver sword or his medallion. Something that was always there. Almost a part of him, that he doesn’t feel complete without.

“We are. But I worry I’ve made it awkward.” He remembers all the mistakes he’s made, and he wonders how Jaskier must perceive his behaviour. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my troubles.”

Bianca shrugs. “You paid for the hour. We can spend it doing whatever you want. And you seem like you could use someone to talk to.”

Her reassuring manner does sets him at ease, and she’s refreshingly non-judgemental. Perhaps he could get some advice. It’s not like he’ll ever be back in this town again.

“I’m trying to reassert my independence,” he says, stumbling only a little. “I fear I may have been somewhat, hmm, full-on recently. I thought visiting a brothel alone might help.”

She pauses. “I see. So you and he -”

“It’s not what you think.” He cuts her off before she can finish that sentence. “We like to share girls sometimes, to save on coin. But we’re just friends.”

“Friends. Right. And you’ve slept together how many times?”

Geralt purses his lips. Sharing a girl doesn’t _really_ count, surely. Though there had been that time he’d been turned away from a brothel and Jaskier had helped him out. And that time they’d been hiding from an angry mob and things had got a bit heated. And the massage incident. And -

“That depends how you define it,” he settles on.

She nods sagely. “I think we may have located the root of your troubles.”

Geralt’s first instinct is to pretend he doesn’t know what she means. But he does. His shoulders slump in resignation.

She sits beside him on the bed. “What’s he like? Tell me about him.”

Geralt contemplates that. “He’s so annoying,” he begins with a huff. “He never stops talking, except for when he’s singing. His music is lovely, actually, though I’d never tell him that. And he’s always following me around. That should be annoying too, though I don’t know why but at some point I found I like it. Everyone else who spends half a day in my company ends up running in fear, but not Jaskier. He’s always there, helping me set up camp and mix potions and trying to improve the reputation of witchers. And he’s funny, surprisingly, though I make a point not to laugh at his jokes because it only encourages him. And he’s always so colourful, that’s nice. And he smells good too. And he’s just… he’s ever so kind, and patient with me. More than I deserve, really.”

She smiles. “You like him a lot, huh?”

Geralt bristles. He does, of course, though he doesn’t love having that pointed out. “It doesn’t matter though. Even if I did feel something for him, he doesn’t feel the same way about me.”

Bianca raises an eyebrow. “Was he enthusiastic about it? When you were together before?”

He was, Geralt supposes. But Jaskier is enthusiastic about _everything_. His lips twist as he thinks.

She pats his knee. “If someone keeps coming back for more, that’s usually a good sign.”

Jaskier does keeping coming back, now she mentions it. Not only for sex, but to travel with Geralt too. Jaskier could go anywhere he wants. He could take up a professorship in Oxenfurt or a well-paid residence at court. But instead he keeps coming back to Geralt.

He gives voice to his smallest, saddest thoughts. “But who could ever want this?” He gestures at his face, his scars, his inhumanity.

“Hon, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this job, it’s that there’s no end of variety in what people are into.” She takes his chin and looks into his eyes, unafraid. “And I have no doubt you could be exactly what someone might want.”

He tries to picture it, to imagine what his life might be like if Jaskier wanted him. He lets himself think for the first time about adventurous days travelling together, and comfortable evenings around the camp fire, and hot nights entwining their bodies. Then waking up with Jaskier in his arms and doing it all over again.

It sounds wonderful, he realises. Everything they have now, and more as well.

It’s not the life a witcher is supposed to live. But it’s what he wants, and he remembers what Jaskier told him: He’s allowed to want things.

He’s allowed to want this.

He turns that thought over in his mind, examining it from every angle. He searches for a way for him to reconcile his understanding of his place in the world with the idea that he could be worthy of affection some day. It’s an awkward fit, the sharp, jagged edges of his role as a monster-hunting witcher and the soft, yawning abyss of want and fear and vulnerability that stretches out in front of him when he thinks of Jaskier.

They’ve made it work thus far, though. Decades of travelling together and they’ve found a kind of peace in each other, even a kind of stability. The Path may be endless and winding, taking him to unfamiliar locations full of danger, but along the way he has the warm comfortable intimacy of Jaskier in his space and in his head and in his heart.

Perhaps they could keep making it work. There’s a possibility, even if it’s only a faint one, that they could bring out each others’ better natures. That they could build something together. That they could be more than flimsy excuses and ignored feelings and shame-filled liaisons.

Geralt realises that his course of action is startlingly clear: He has to try, to at least find out if he could be something more to Jaskier as well. The riches of the reward make the risks worth it.

And he never could resist an impossible challenge.

He thanks Bianca with the earnestness she deserves, tips her extravagantly, and sets out to formulate a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He experienced a thought! A whole, entire thought. Very proud of him, wow.


	19. take me back to the start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your patience while I worked on this chapter. This has been an emotional ride but I'm very excited to share the big finale!

“How about we go visit April again?” Geralt asks Jaskier one morning, projecting as much casual indifference into the question as he can. “She did invite us back, and we’ll be passing by that way soon.”

Just two good friends going to visit a brothel to share a prostitute. Again. No big deal. No need to scare Jaskier off.

The road they’re travelling winds through the countryside toward the town where they’d met April and this _thing_ between Jaskier and him had started. Geralt thinks he’s been very cunning in maneuvering them back in this direction.

“Oh.” Jaskier’s body language doesn’t change, but his heartbeat stutters then picks up into a hammering rhythm. “Sure,” he says, inspecting his nails, outwardly casual. “That could be fun.”

Jaskier doesn’t look like he’s about to run, so Geralt is going to count that as a win. He nods, once, and holds back a smile that threatens to spill out in anticipation.

.

April greets them warmly, with a hint of sparkle in her eyes, and they’re herded up to her room. It’s the same as before, the same obnoxiously red furnishings, the same musty smell of sex, and she is as appealing and lovely as ever.

Geralt can’t help but notice the difference in himself though: the weight of everything that’s happened since then, the inconvenient magnitude of his feelings, his growing understanding of just how much Jaskier means to him. It makes him nervous in a way he hasn’t felt since he was a boy, and he stamps down the urge to fidget.

April cocks her head at him, curious, like she can see he’s different too. He gives her a lopsided half smile and she nods, understanding.

“Good to see you again, big boy,” she says as she pulls his shirt off and runs fingertips down his chest. “You been well?”

Geralt sneaks a glance at Jaskier, who is kicking off his boots in the corner. “You gave me a lot to think about. It’s been an… illuminating few months.”

“Illuminating in a good way?”

Geralt ponders that. Yeah, all in all, considering what he’s got from it. “In a very good way.”

April smiles broadly, like she’s pleased by that answer. “That’s my man,” she says, patting him on the cheek, and Geralt feels a ridiculous surge of pride. She divests Geralt of the rest of his clothes in an efficient manner, and she doesn’t seem to object to the fact Geralt is staring at Jaskier the entire time.

“There we go,” she says once she has Geralt naked. “You entertain yourself for a moment while I see to your dear friend, yeah?”

That’s easily done. Jaskier seems nervous too, hopping from one foot to the other, though April sets him at ease. Geralt stares, hungry and unabashed, as she peels away Jaskier’s layers of finery to reveal supple, smooth skin beneath. Geralt is half hard already from the anticipation, and he fists his cock in his hand as he watches Jaskier’s shirt slide from his shoulder, the tantalising glimpse of firm muscle exposed beneath.

Jaskier’s eyes flick to his, then down to his hand where he’s working himself over, then back to his face, and the most charming blush spreads over his cheeks. Geralt feels the urge to look away, the old instinct of shame kicking in, but he fights it back. He’s looking at Jaskier, and he likes what he sees. He wants Jaskier to know that, even if he isn’t quite ready to put it into words.

April sets herself down on her knees in front of Jaskier, unlacing his trousers with deft fingers. Jaskier is still looking at Geralt, bottom lip caught in his teeth, eyes a little wild, and they haven’t even got started yet. It’s a good look on him, Geralt thinks as he squeezes a little firmer around his cock, slides his hand a little faster. 

April peels off Jaskier’s trousers and he’s finally, deliciously naked, his cock bouncing free and settling in a hard line against his thigh. Broad shoulders, slender waist, thick thighs, hard cock. He is a feast, and Geralt is starving.

“Lovely,” April says, cheerfully. “Get yourself settled on the bed for me, sweetheart.” 

On somewhat shaky legs, Jaskier does so, sprawling himself on the bed and propping himself up on his elbows. His cheeks are pink and his hair is mussed and he’s beautiful. Geralt wants to devour him whole.

April looks from Jaskier to Geralt over her shoulder. “You too, my man,” she orders, and Geralt feels like he’s looking down on his body from high above as he arranges himself on the bed next to Jaskier, close enough to touch but keeping his hands to himself, at least for now.

“Much better,” she says, taking in the two of them on the bed, apparently satisfied. “But oh dear! How foolish of me. I suddenly realise I have left an urgent matter unattended to downstairs. You two can keep yourself amused for a moment while I see to it, right?”

“Most certainly, dear lady,” Jaskier says, seemingly calm, but Geralt can see the blush spreading from his cheeks down his neck. “Let us not detain you. We will gladly wait upon your pleasure.”

“Such considerate gentlemen,” April says, pulling on a robe and heading for the door. She gives Geralt a tiny wink as she departs. 

The door shuts and a heavy silence descends on the room. Geralt glances to his side and gets a tormenting glimpse of Jaskier, so near and yet so far away. He forces his eyes back up to the ceiling, determined not to come on too strong.

But the hairs on the back of his neck prickle when he feels Jaskier turn and look at him, the heat of his gaze running up and down the length of his body. 

“So…” Jaskier says, carefully light. “How should we amuse ourselves while we wait?”

Geralt has been thinking about this moment for weeks. He has _plans_. He was going to be _eloquent_. He was going to _use his words_. 

And then Jaskier looks at him, and smiles softly, and every thought he’s ever had goes flying out of his head. 

So he acts purely on instinct: he puts a hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck, he pulls him close, and he kisses him with everything he has.

Jaskier is hot and responsive, opening his mouth to welcome Geralt in, and the taste of him is as intoxicating as it is familiar. He tugs and Jaskier rolls onto him, their bodies pressed together from head to toe, and heat sparks from the base of Geralt’s spine to the tips of his fingers where they are entwined in Jaskier’s hair. He feels like he could drown like this, and he would die a happy man.

“Mphgh,” Jaskier says against his lips, all his usual composure apparently deserting him. 

So Geralt kisses him again, and that seems to be agreeable. Jaskier scrabbles at him, hands everywhere at once, frantic and frenzied. There’s an edge of desperation to it which makes something inside him shift uncomfortably. 

“Hey.” Geralt pulls back for a moment. “It’s okay. There’s no rush.”

A storm of emotions crosses Jaskier’s face in a matter of seconds. “There isn’t?” He visibly composes himself, rolling back onto his side. Geralt wants to chase after him, but he restrains himself, gives Jaskier the space he needs. “I thought…,” Jaskier trails off. “Well, I thought you might change your mind again. It’s not easy to tell what you want if you don’t talk about it.”

Right. Talking. Words. That had been the plan. 

Geralt takes a steadying breath. He can do this. He can do this for Jaskier.

“Last time we were here, April said something to me,” he begins. Jaskier looks over and tilts his head, curious. “She said that next time, we wouldn’t need her.” Jaskier goes a little pale, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to start making excuses. But Geralt doesn’t need to hear them. “I finally understand what she meant.”

Jaskier shuts his mouth. “Oh,” he says, tentative, like he’s not sure how this conversation is going to continue.

“It was never about the girls, was it?” Geralt says, daring to run a finger down Jaskier’s cheek. “All this time, it was always about you and me.”

Jaskier’s smile breaks through like the sun peeking between clouds. “You figured it out.” Then it morphs into a teasing grin, and he punches Geralt in the shoulder. “Took you long enough.”

Geralt’s chest is so light he feels like he could float away. “It did. I’m sorry if that hurt you.” Emboldened and free, he wraps a hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck, and it fits like it belongs there. “I want you, Jaskier, and I think I always have.” It’s so startlingly clear, he wonders how he could ever have doubted it.

Jaskier laughs, and Geralt wants to wrap himself in that sound. “You can have me,” Jaskeir says, and he can’t stop smiling. “Any way and every way you want. I’m _yours_ , you great idiot, and I have been for years.”

And that’s…. that’s everything that Geralt wants, and more than he can possibly deserve. The nameless thing which has been furiously beating inside his chest feels like it’s about to burst free and carry him away with it. 

This time, Jaskier kisses him, and Geralt lets himself luxuriate in this, in what he wants, in his Jaskier.

“How do you want me?” Jaskier asks, voice husky, and the myriad implications of that question have Geralt’s head spinning. But he knows. He knows what he wants.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says into Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier gasps like he’s been handed a wonderful gift.

“It would be, with not the tiniest bit of exaggeration, my absolute pleasure,” Jaskier says, stroking a gentle hand down Geralt’s side.

Jaskier sits up and there’s suddenly no contact between them and Geralt makes a noise which, if he was absolutely forced to confront it, he would admit was a whine. Jaskier pets him indulgently and rummages around in the nightstand by the bed and, heaves bless April and her preparedness, finds a vial of oil there. 

When Jaskier settles between his legs, Geralt is expecting something hot and heavy, the desire that’s been building between them for months sharpened into something rough and desperate. 

He never would have imagined, not in a thousand years, the way Jaskier bends his head to kiss his down his stomach and across his thighs, lips trailing so softly, the rough grit of his stubble just coming in abrading his skin, as if he’s mapping every inch of Geralt’s body, as if this is what he has wanted all along. 

It’s heady and astounding, the sensation of being the object of Jaskier’s singular focus. His fingers and his lips trace every patch of skin he can find, and it’s almost overwhelming. Geralt feels _adored_. He feels _cherished_. 

It’s almost too much, his blood is rushing under his skin, he feels like he’s sinking, like he might simply melt apart, and all Jaskier has done is lavish attention on him.

“Come on, Jaskier,” he pleads, all thoughts of shame left far behind. “ _Please_.”

Jaskier pauses and looks up at him, eyes shining bright. “Oh, Geralt,” he grins, “you sound so good when you beg.”

He’s going to object to that, he really is, but then he’s distracted by Jaskier bending to lick a stripe up his cock, and he nearly keens with the need for it. 

“Patience,” Jaskier chides, coating his fingers with oil. “I’ll give you what you need.”

 _You always do_ , Geralt thinks, and then Jaskier’s mouth is back on his cock and he stops thinking all together.

The first press of Jaskier’s finger at his entrance is so soft he barely notices it, there and then gone again, back and stroking him in careful circles. With Jaskier’s lips stretched around his cock his entire body is loose and pliant, and it’s easy for Jaskier’s fingers to slip inside and open him up. 

He loves this, in truth. Lying here and allowing Jaskier to lavish affection on him. For once there are no monsters to fight, no jeering villagers to block out, nothing for him to do but let himself be pleasured. And from the rapturous look on Jaskier’s face as he works him open, he’s not alone in his enjoyment.

He gives himself over to it, lets Jaskier prepare him as he sees fit, nothing in his mind but safe, comfortable trust. The burn around Jaskier’s fingers turns to a stretch, and any lingering hesitation slips away.

When Jaskier deems him ready, he withdraws his fingers and Geralt whimpers. But before he can protest, Jaskier is drawing himself up, nosing at Geralt’s neck and pressing sweet kisses to his skin.

“You ready?” Jaskier asks and _fuck yes, of course he is_ , but he feels a bubble of warmth expand in his chest knowing that Jaskier cares enough to make sure he’s happy.

“Been ready for months,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier just laughs because they both know that isn’t true.

“My dearest witcher,” Jaskier says, soppy for a moment and so very fond, kissing Geralt with a tenderness that has that strange feeling deep in his chest squeezing more tightly. He squirms a bit at that, the wave of emotions threatening to overcome him, but Jaskier’s arms are around him and Jaskier’s weight is on top of him and he’s here, he’s grounded, and everything he needs is right here in this room.

When Jaskier pushes into him, slow and careful, it feels like the two of them are melding into one, like he’s being spread open but only so that he can make room inside for Jaskier. The stretching feeling increases and his breathing stutters, but Jaskier is there, a hand on his face, whispering sweet words of comfort.

Once he’s settled deep inside Geralt they take a moment to breathe, forehead to forehead, and then Jaskier starts to move and Geralt can’t contain the noise that punches out of him. Small thrusts at first, the drag of Jaskier’s cock inside him sending flares of sensation, and then building in a confident rhythm, and Jaskier’s so good at this, so good to him, like he knew he would be.

“You feel,” Jaskier gasps, “Gods, Geralt, you feel incredible.”

Geralt can’t speak, can barely comprehend the words, focused as he is on the slick slide of Jaskier inside him, the glowing hum of tension and pleasure where their bodies meet, the heat of Jaskier all around him.

“More?” Jaskier offers, and Geralt has no idea how anything could be more than this but he’s oh so very curious to find out.

He nods, and Jaskier spreads Geralt’s legs further, lifting one of his knees so he’s even more open. He thrusts again, and at this new angle his cock brushes deep inside Geralt and sends a sparkling bust of pleasure throughout his body, leaving him clawing at the sheets, at Jaskier’s sides, at his shoulders.

“So good for me,” Jaskier says, and Geralt shudders all over. “So beautiful.”

Geralt buries his face into the pillow, overwhelmed by the sensation and affection in concert, but Jaskier keeps up a steady stream of praise and kind words, and Geralt lets it wash over him, lets himself be carried away in a haze of adoration.

He floats, he soars, and for a time all that matters is the grace of their bodies moving together and the bubbling, building heat between them.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” Jaskier says, breathy now, and Geralt knows in his bones that it’s true, that all the times they’ve spent together have been leading them here, that he can have Jaskier now like they were always meant to be. 

Sweat is pooling at Jaskier’s temples and his thrusts are getting messy, erratic, and Geralt loves it, loves seeing Jaskier undone, loves knowing that he caused it. Jaskier reaches down and wraps a hand around Geralt’s cock, pumping him in time, and it really only takes a few strokes until the building pleasure explodes out of him in a pure, bright white light.

He comes gasping Jaskier’s name, and for once he holds nothing back.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, like a sigh. “Oh Geralt.” And Geralt feels Jaskier tense and come inside him, slick and wet, and the thought of being filled with the evidence of Jaskier’s pleasure sends his head reeling as much as the orgasm did.

Jaskier’s arms wobble where they’re supporting him and he collapses in a heap on top of Geralt, pulling out with as much care as can be managed in this position. It’s messy and frankly it should be kind of gross, but Geralt feels nothing but elation. 

.

Some time later there’s a knock at the door, and it’s pushed open to reveal April lounging in the door frame and sipping a mug of wine. 

She takes in them both, sweaty and disheveled, covered in reddening marks and sticky with each other’s seed, and raises an eyebrow. “Glad to see you two sorted it out,” she says, taking another swig of wine. 

Maybe Geralt should feel self-conscious, but Jaskier seems to have wrung every emotion that isn’t cosy contentment out of him. He gives her a dopey smile instead. 

“The other girls will be thrilled to hear you finally got your heads out of your arses,” she says.

Jaskier rouses himself with a stretch. “Other girls?”

“Oh yes, we have quite the letter-writing network between brothels. We like to keep each other up to date on the comings and goings of our favourite customers.”

Geralt and Jaskier share a look.

“After the incident with Florence we all hoped you two would pull your heads out of your arses. Even had a little betting pool going. Shame that I didn’t win, but it seems you finally got there in the end. Congrats!”

“Delighted to hear we’ve been providing you and the other ladies of the Continent with entertainment,” Jaskier says with a grin. “Though let it never be said that we’d leave a fine woman such as yourself wanting for coin, so you’ll find your payment on the dresser.”

April picks up the purse and gives a satisfied nod. “Such gentlemen, and for such easy work. Tell you what, I’m taking myself off to the bath house for some pleasure of my own. How about I let you two keep the room while I’m gone? Seems like you might be needing it for a little while longer.”

Jaskier eyes him and licks his lips, and Geralt feels heat racing under his skin and crawling up his neck.

“That would be appreciated,” Geralt says, and he _does not_ blush. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to pass the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers, your comments and encouragement have meant the world to me and I hope this final chapter pleases you! There's a little tiny epilogue to come soon but this is the end of the main adventures, so I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have <3


	20. the morning after the night before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A soft little epilogue, because they both deserve to be loved.

Geralt wakes to a warm body pressed against him and a familiar scent permeating the air, his fingers flexing against a firm chest and his face buried in soft hair. Jaskier smells of lavender and sex and _Geralt_ and that combination is intoxicating.

Still half asleep, Geralt wants to cuddle closer but he holds back - _he shouldn’t be doing this, it’s inappropriate, what would Jaskier think_ \- until all in a great rush he recalls last night. He remembers how Jaskier had touched him, how he’d made Geralt feel so adored, how he’d told him he wants him, that he doesn’t have to deny himself, that they can be like this, together.

He’s allowed to want this. He’s allowed to have this. He’s quite possibly the luckiest man on the entire continent.

He eyes the expanse of skin between Jaskier’s neck and his shoulder. It looks so very appealing, and he finds himself dropping a kiss there, and then another, just because he can. He runs his teeth lightly along the cord of muscle which has enticed him for so long, because he’s allowed to do that now. The idea is heady.

Jaskier hums and wriggles against him, threading his hand into Geralt’s where it sits on his chest. He can feel Jaskier’s heart beneath his palm, fast and light compared to his own and so much a part of the background of his life that he’d know the sound anywhere.

Jaskier guides his hand down, over his stomach and down further still, and Geralt lets him because in truth he’d let Jaskier lead him anywhere.

When Jaskier wraps their joined hands around his cock, he lets out a tiny little sigh and Geralt wants to bottle that sound and keep it forever. He moves his hand slowly, enjoying both the weight of Jaskier’s hardening cock in his hand and the way Jaskier’s breath hitches as he touches him.

He keeps the pace leisurely, burying his face into Jaskier’s neck and losing himself in the feel of smooth skin and that delicious scent he wants to drown in. Jaskier is pliant and warm in his arms, responsive to every trace of his lips and flick of his wrist, and everything about this is new and exciting and yet still somehow familiar.

When Jaskier comes, it’s with a gentle exhale, a sound of contentment and fulfillment, and Geralt did that, made him feel good and satisfied and cared for. Pride wells up inside him.

Jaskier rolls over to rest his arms on Geralt’s chest and sit his chin atop them. His hair is a tousled mess and his eyes are still soft with sleep, and he’s beautiful. Now that Geralt lets himself acknowledge that, it seems hilarious that he could ever have tried to deny it.

“That was a lovely way to wake up,” Jaskier says, eyes crinkling as he smiles. His fingers dance over Geralt’s skin. “And the only thing that would make me happier is if you allow me to return the favour.“

Geralt finds himself smiling in return, a strange sort of lightness filling his chest when he realises that Jaskier is speaking the truth, that it truly would make him happy to please Geralt.

Geralt pulls him into a kiss, messy and warm and intimate.

When Jaskier pulls back, he brushes a hair from Geralt’s face. “What do you want?” he asks, a wicked grin playing across his lips.

Geralt considers. What _does_ he want?

He wants Jaskier’s mouth, and his fingers, and his cock. He wants to have Jaskier in all the ways he’s avoided thinking about for so long.

He wants to discover every inch of Jaskier’s body, to find the spots that make him groan, to explore with hands and lips and tongue and to learn everything that Jaskier enjoys, everything that _he_ enjoys, everything that they can enjoy together.

He wants Jaskier as his travel companion, he wants to see Jaskier’s smile and he wants to smell Jaskier’s scent and to hear his voice and yes, even his music.

He wants to go on hunts and know that someone is looking out for him, that someone cares if he comes home alive or not, that someone will be there when things go wrong. He wants to matter.

He wants more mornings like this: comfortable and content, nowhere to be, nothing to concern themselves with except each other.

He still can’t quite believe this is something he’s worthy of, but he so wants to try to be.

They have all the time in the world to figure it out. He can’t wait to get started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading and especially for all your comments throughout this fic. They have been inspiring, motivating, and very funny, and I'm so touched by the response to what started out as a silly little one-shot and blossomed into something much bigger than I had ever imagined it would.
> 
> I have had such a great time writing this and you readers have been the main reason why. Thanks for coming along on this adventure and I hope this little sweet send-off pleases you!


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